


The Choice

by Popcornjones



Series: Sherlock's Return Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After the Fall, Aftermath of Torture, Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angry John, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Beekeeping, Bees, Bisexual John, Bottom Sherlock, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys Kissing, Breakup, Breakup Sex, Comfort/Angst, Cruel John, Doctor John Watson, Drunken Kissing, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Heavy Angst, Hurt John Watson, Injured John Watson, Jealous Sherlock, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John-centric, Kissing, Love Triangle, M/M, Mean John, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Torture, Pining Sherlock, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scotland, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Loves John, Smut, Top John, Top John Watson, Torn Between Two Lovers, missing child, tortured John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-02 07:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11504211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: After the events of 'Return of The Thing' and 'Survivor' a depressed and angry John must make choice between Sherlock and Shane, his two lovers, and somehow find a way to be happy again.This takes place after the Reichenbach Fall. Let's just pretend seasons three and four never happened. They're nowhere as good as the first two anyway.





	1. It's Sherlock's Night Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock argue. John and Shane argue...

"But it's MY night tonight!" Sherlock winced at the petulance in his voice, but it wasn't fair!

"Sherlock, we talked about this... I told you weeks ago that I'm going to this dinner with Shane tonight." John continued shaving, barely glancing at Sherlock.

"You spent all of last weekend with him and every day but Tuesday this week. Now you're leaving for another weekend!"

"Shane is getting a CWA Gold Dagger tonight for 'Henry Hunt.'" John said. "It's a prestigious literary award, of course I'm going. You can't begrudge him that."

"You're never here!" That wasn't true. John spent quite a bit of time in their flat, most of it in his pajamas, dead-eyed and monosyllabic, when he could drag himself out of bed. Which was becoming increasingly infrequent.

"Jesus, please shut up." John flung at him wearily. "All you do is hassle me. Shane is my boyfriend! Spending time with my boyfriend isn't a crime." He slammed the razor down on the counter and swiped at his face with a wet flannel.

"HE'S your boyfriend – what am I, John?! Your carer? Your nursemaid? A convenient hole in the mattress?!"

"You're a bloody drama queen, that's what you are." John said and pushed by Sherlock. He started towards his bedroom. "You're my friend." He added grudgingly, over his shoulder.

Sherlock followed him into his room – a room they shared when John slept at Baker Street. When John was feeling up to it, that is, which happened less and less. "We're more than friends!"

John yanked open the dresser drawer. "You knew what you were getting into – I never led you on." He grabbed a pair of pants and a vest and slammed the drawer shut.

"How could I know? I never paid attention to RELATIONSHIPS." Sherlock said the word like it was repugnant. "Who cares what other people do, I'm only interested in us!"

John stepped into his pants and pulled them up in one angry motion. He winced and adjusted himself. "What 'us?'" He demanded. "We never do anything except fuck. You haven't taken a case in months. You just lurk in the flat, watching me."

"I'm worried about you."

"Why!? What do you think I'm going to do? If I WANTED to kill myself, you couldn't stop me." John yanked his vest over his head and pulled it down. 

"What... why would you kill yourself...? That doesn't make sense –"

"For some fucking peace and quiet!" John shouted. He pursed his lips, regretting the outburst if not the words. "Just let me alone." He continued in a quieter tone. "Stop hovering over me all the bloody time!" John picked up the thick sock that protected his stump when he wore a prosthetic. He rolled it onto his arm with staccato movements.

"I'll stop hovering when you stop spending all day in bed." Sherlock shot back.

"I'm NOT IN BED NOW!"

"No, you're going out with HIM. You always make an effort with him." Sherlock said bitterly. "And it's MY NIGHT! Not his!"

"Jesus bloody christ, stop bloody whinging." John muttered, more to himself than Sherlock. He picked up his prosthesis with a look of distaste and shrugged the straps into place on his shoulders. He tightened the buckle and opened the pincers a few times experimentally. Satisfied he went to his closet and examined the contents.

"I'm not happy, John."

"There's nothing I can do about that." He chose a dress shirt and drew it on carefully over the prosthetic.

"You could stay."

"He's getting an award, Sherlock. I'd blow him off if you were getting an award." He began the process of buttoning his shirt one-handed.

"I wouldn't CARE about a stupid award." Sherlock flopped angrily onto the bed.

John sighed. "Listen, I'll come home early tomorrow. We can have brunch."

"No, you won't. You'll have a miserable time tonight, watching for people to notice the hook, then getting upset when they do. You'll get drunk and you'll be too hungover to come home early. When you DO come home, you'll go to bed and stay there for at least three days – until HE calls and convinces you to go out. That's what ALWAYS happens."

John stopped buttoning and stared at Sherlock, his face pinched and tense. He looked like he wanted to deny Sherlock's prediction, but couldn't think of a convincing argument. He made a gesture of futility. "If you know what's going to happen, why bother?" He turned back to his closet. "Why bother? I'm not worth it."

"You know why."

"No, Sherlock, I really don't. I'm no prize. You're not happy. I can't stand having you looking over my shoulder constantly... why bloody bother?" John took a pair of trousers off a hanger, clipped one side of the waistband with the hook and proceeded to climb into them. "Just... find a murder to solve, or a kidnapping... or I don't know... jump off a fucking roof or something..."

"Stop being such a cock – it doesn't suit you."

"But it suits you? I have to behave so you can be the center of the universe again? With your tantrums and your promises..." John attempted to button his trousers, but failed. He tried again, his patience waning and his fury rising. Sherlock sat up, itching to help, but knowing it would only make John angrier. John noticed Sherlock watching him. "STOP BLOODY STARING AT ME! Just... get out!" He slammed the side of his fist into the closet door. "Get. The. Fuck. Out. Now!"

Sherlock slid slowly off the bed and slouched to the door. "It's MY night." He repeated. "You spend all your time with him."

"I do!" John said bitingly. "THIS is what you agreed to, Sherlock. THIS is what you wanted! Half a relationship. Don't complain about it – you WANTED this!"

"John, please..."

"Please what!?"

"You didn't give me a choice!"

"You always have choices, Sherlock. And so do I. And right now, I'm CHOOSING to be with Shane." John turned his back and returned to wrestling with his flies.

Sherlock retreated to the kitchen. He HATED fighting with John now. It never used to bother him at all – but John had never been vicious before. He'd never TRIED to be hurtful.

Somehow he'd done something wrong. Sherlock didn't know what it was, but John was angry with him all the time. Angry or depressed, those were John's two moods. He rested his head in his hands, thinking he might cry again – later, after John left.

He was still sitting at the kitchen table when John emerged from his bedroom twenty minutes later. Sherlock didn't look up – he could smell John's 'good' aftershave, the kind he wore on special occasions. 

Then he felt a hand in his hair, stroking gently. "I'm sorry." John said quietly.

Sherlock leaned into John's hand – he couldn't help himself. "It's MY night." He said.

"I know. I'll make it up to you."

Sherlock nodded with resignation, eyes downcast.

"I have to go." John said. "Come on, give me a snog." John's hand brushed his cheek.

Sherlock sighed and turned to John. He looked quite unlike himself in the tailored black suit. He looked elegant. 

John leaned down and movement ruined the illusion – he was John again. Sherlock smiled at that. John took it as invitation, he kissed Sherlock his hand gripping Sherlock's neck with just a suggestion of urgency. It was impossibly sweet and loving and Sherlock felt foolish hope blooming in his chest as he gave himself over to John's kiss. 

"I'll see you tomorrow." John said. Then he stood up straight, squared his shoulders and left.

 

\---

 

It had been seven months since Sherlock had returned to London and John. It had become warm in the city, the gray, rainy Spring giving way to a bright, less-rainy summer.

Seven months and Sherlock did not feel settled. Despite John's accusation, he WAS taking cases. Lestrade had called him in to consult eight times and he'd had a number of private clients – one or two had even been challenging. But the contentment he'd felt before he'd jumped off St. Barts eluded him. 

Sherlock did not know why. The one thing that had disturbed his peace before was wanting John. Now he HAD John... but his therapist's prediction had not borne fruit, having John had not disposed of the distraction. Sherlock felt at loose ends half the time, unable to focus on his work – or if he could, unable to derive satisfaction from it.

John had joined Sherlock at first. They'd seen clients together, had gone out investigating together. It was almost like it was before, having the one person he trusted so completely at his side, finding inspiration in bouncing ideas off each other. And best of all... there'd been a chase – a burglar they'd been tracking had bumbled right into them, dropped his loot and scarpered. John was after him like a shot, his powerful thighs pumping, the tattoo of his feet on the pavement leading Sherlock after them. When Sherlock caught up four blocks away, he found the man incapacitated in John's grip. John was fierce and fiercely alive, his grin feral.

They'd handed the villain over to the police then hurried home, the electricity between them palpable. As soon as the door shut behind them, John was tearing at Sherlock's clothes, kissing him – they were kissing each other, pawing each other. The sex had been tremendous, Sherlock bent over the kitchen table, his trousers around his ankles, as John railed him, rode him, his hand in the mass of black curls like it was the reins of a particularly spirited horse. The sound of their sweaty bodies slapping together, John's heavy bollocks smacking against his own over and over... the sharp, shuddering pulses of pleasure... the weight of John collapsed against his back... laughing together, breathless... a trail of semen across the back of his thighs...

It was how he had dreamed it could be, the two of them together, happy. Partners.

When they went to bed that night, John had held him. "I love you." John whispered and Sherlock felt his breath against his temple. "So much." 

"This is all I wanted." Sherlock said. 

But Sherlock woke alone in John's bed the next morning. He found John in the kitchen, but he was distant. There were no more smiles or caresses. John went to bed that afternoon and stayed there for two days. Then he went to Shane's.

After that Sherlock saw clients, but John joined him less and less. When he wasn't in bed or staring glassy-eyed at the telly, he was at Shane's – or he was picking fights with Sherlock.

It was an awful, hellish existence. Yet the thought of giving John up, going away again... that was impossible! 

He didn't even want opiates! The siren song of heroin was more silent now than it had been since his first hit. Nothing was right! Nothing would do!

Nothing but that fleeting perfection, having John by his side AND in his bed.

 

\---

 

The client had come to the flat an hour after John left.

True to his word, John had returned to Baker Street at 10 am Sunday morning bringing coffees and pastry for Sherlock and a bagel for himself. 

"Morning." John said as he set food out on the table. He sat down and took a long swig of his coffee.

"Hello." Sherlock examined John as he helped himself to an almond croissant. He was making an effort to be present for Sherlock... but the strain was obvious. Also obvious, John had been angry enough at Sherlock to avoid getting drunk last night. He refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of being right.

That was good. They could leave today.

But when John looked up from his coffee there was misery in his eyes, his shoulders taut with tension. He was debating something internally, he had something to say – something Sherlock was quite certain he didn't want to hear.

And as soon as he said it, John would retire to his bed, isolate himself once again.

"Sherlock..." John started.

"We have a case." Sherlock cut him off. "Missing child. In Scotland." 

At 'missing child' guilt flitted across John's face. At 'Scotland' a seed of interest. 

"The mother came by last night. I told her we would accompany her back to Scotland on the 12:05 train." Sherlock stood up, taking an apple galette. "Get packed. Wouldn't do to miss the train when the bereaved mother is waiting." Sherlock strode to the stairs that led to his bedroom.

"Sherlock!" John called, stopping him before he could start up. 

Sherlock looked back at John apprehensively, KNOWING that he would beg off: John would say he couldn't go, couldn't leave Shane behind, that he had prior engagements. He'd claim he didn't want to go. 

Sherlock felt sick.

John cleared his throat. "Erm, how many days should I pack for?" He asked.

Surprised, Sherlock just stared for a moment. "Oh! Er, a week should suffice." He ran up the stairs two at a time, his gut unclenching.

 

\---

 

They met up with the unfortunate Peg MacFarland on the platform at St. Pancras just as the Great Northern arrived.

"This is my associate, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock said to the woman. "John, this is our client." Sherlock left them and swung onto the train. He had declined to tell John anything about the case on the way to the station, sitting Sphinx-like in the cab. In an earlier time – when their relationship wasn't so complicated – John would have asked. But now... now the dampening ennui was creeping over him again. John wondered why he'd agreed to come on this trip. He would rather have just gone to sleep...

"Erm, call me John." John told the client. She was a hearty-looking woman that John judged to be in her late thirties. Despite her aura of good health and athleticism, her face was puffy and her eyes red-rimmed, her hands trembled and she seemed distracted.

"Peg." She said, taking John's proffered hand. "Peg MacFarland." 

John ushered her towards the door into which Sherlock had disappeared, shouldering his duffel and picking up her little overnight case. "You live in Inverness, Ms. MacFarland?"

"Peg. Call me Peg, please." She said. Her voice was low and pleasant, her Northern accent thick. "We're outside the city, on the coast." Her restless eyes took him in – and with a sinking heart John saw her notice the hook. He looked away, he didn't want to see her pity, her horror... he'd had enough – more than enough – of that last night....

It was an important award and John was proud of Shane. And that's what the evening should have been about, not John's dread of the inevitable reactions to his amputation.

Sherlock had been right, John wanted to drink. He'd wanted to down enough Scotch to relieve the relentless, aching tension in his muscles and in his brain. But he was there to support Shane, not indulge his own frailties. John had stuck doggedly to beer and club soda all night. He had smiled and shaken hands, made small talk and hidden how charmed he was by Shane's bemusement at all the different reactions of people discovering he was gay.

Shane's happiness, his very evident pride, whenever he had introduced 'my boyfriend, Dr. John Watson' had almost – almost – made the evening bearable.

But in the cab afterwards, Shane, pleasantly tipsy and flirty, clutching his award in his lap, had squandered John's goodwill.

"Kiss me!" He'd demanded, a soft whiff of Scotch on his breath.

"In the cab?" Shane was kissing his neck already and it felt lovely – but the cabbie was giving them the side eye in the rear view mirror.

"I'm an award winner." Shane proclaimed. "And I want a kiss from my gorgeous boyfriend!"

John laughed out loud. "Gorgeous? Have I met him?" He let Shane lean in on him, push him back against the seat and kiss him.

"You ARE gorgeous." Shane murmured when he came up for air. "I want you tonight. Oh John... I love feeling your hands on my body..."

John stiffened – he couldn't stop himself. He felt nauseated and short of breath at the same time. He pushed Shane away – gently enough, but his mood was sour. "I'm afraid I can't oblige." John said, head bowed.

It took a moment for Shane to realize what he'd said. "John, don't be like that... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you..."

"I know." John said. "No apology necessary." He didn't invite more snogging. Instead he ran a finger over the side of Shane's award, thinking to redirect attention. 

But Shane wasn't sober enough to take the hint. "I wish you'd let me get you an articulated hand!" He burst out. "One of the mechanical ones."

"I'm sorry..." John said slowly, pulling even farther away. "If my hook embarrasses you."

"It doesn't embarrass ME, John, it embarrasses YOU." 

Shane was right. Or half right – John was embarrassed... and he was furious, horrified, disconsolate... he hated, absolutely hated, that this had happened to him. He couldn't reconcile himself to it.

"But that's not why." Shane continued avidly. "I've done some research on them, they really are remarkable..."

"Shane." John didn't raise his voice, but he didn't have to. He knew how to command attention. "I can't even pay you back for the iPhone. There's no way I can afford–"

"But I can. I CAN afford it, John. And I WANT to give it to you."

John looked away. They'd discussed this before, but Shane had always been casual about it. And he'd let it go when John objected. Not tonight.

Shane took John's hand. "Move in with me." He said and kissed John's knuckles. "The people downstairs are moving out, we can combine the flats – there'd be plenty of room for both of us. You're over all the time anyway, it makes sense."

John frowned in confusion. "You want me to let the flat below...?" Shane knew very well that John couldn't come close to affording a flat in his posh neighborhood.

"Of course not – I own the building. I don't need the rent." He ran his thumb over John's palm lovingly. "I was thinking we could move some walls around, expand the kitchen in the downstairs flat, put in a stairwell and turn my flat into our bedroom suite. We'd have to get an architect to look at it."

John digested this. "Oh." He said. "Oh! You're not just comfortable... you're... rich?"

"Yeah."

John cleared his throat nervously. "Ok."

"Ok, you'll move in with me?"

"Erm, ok, let me wrap my head around this."

"I love you, John. Tonight, introducing you as my boyfriend to everyone... I was so happy to be there with you... it's time to take the next step."

John squeezed Shane's hand even as he frowned. "It's not that I don't feel the same. I do. But... it's not so easy... I feel like enough of a burden already..."

"John! You're not!"

"Yeah, that's easy for you to say." John snapped. He took a deep breath, slowing himself down. "I... I don't want to be... beholden. I want us to be equals. If I live in your house, eat your food... Shane, I'm not even working right now. I have my pension and not much else. Do you understand?"

"I do. John, I really do. That's exactly why I don't flaunt what I have – I don't want to be with someone who expects me to carry him. I want a partner. Someone I trust and love. Someone I can depend on. And we HAVE that, John. You've never looked at me and seen money before, let's don't start now. Don't let this stop us from being together."

John sighed, troubled. "You're right." He said. "You're right. I just need to get used to the idea."

"Of living together?"

"Being... a kept man."

Shane chuckled, leaning into John again, his lips finding John's...

Peg MacFarland brought John out of his reverie. "Me husband lost his arm in Afghanistan." She said matter-of-factly. "You were a soldier too?"

"Erm, yeah, I was... but this..." John raised the hook very slightly. "Happened much more recently."

She nodded, no pity in her tired eyes. "You have your elbow." She observed. "That's huge." 

John was startled, it took him a moment to regather his wits. "Erm, I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet with you yesterday, Ms. MacFarland – Peg. Sherlock has told me very little, perhaps you could fill me in?"

John found Peg MacFarland refreshing. He hoped they could help her.


	2. The Wee Lad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns details of the case. Sherlock has a realization.

It was an eight plus hour train ride to Inverness. They arrived well after 23:00, too late for the bus to Rosemarkie, the village closest to Peg MacFarland's home.

Sherlock found a taxi and they paid double rate to go all the way to Rosemarkie – just outside Moray Firth on the North Sea. John and Sherlock stopped at the Carriage House Inn where John had reserved rooms (whilst on the train), and after assurances that they would see her first thing in the morning, the cab took Peg home.

"It's my Davey." She'd told John on the train. "My little boy."

"Tell me about him." John said gently.

"He's just a wee lad, Davey. Just five. Stan and I weren't blessed with many bairns, just our little lad." She was crying, tears running down her face. "He was the sweetest bairn, a delicate little bit, and fair – fairer than Stan or I ever was. Stan called him our wee changeling..."

John dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Here."

"Ta." She mopped distractedly at her tears then scrabbled in her purse for an envelope. She opened it to reveal a photo. She pointed at it. "That's my Davey." She said. "Just this Spring."

John took the photo. Davey MacFarland was indeed fair – blonde and delicately pretty with large gray eyes and a narrow chin. There was a resemblance to his sturdy mum in the shape of his nose and mouth, but his light coloring was completely different. The crystal clarity of the child's eyes made him look older and wiser than his years. 

"He's a beautiful boy." John said, handing the photo back.

"He disappeared on Thursday, June 20. We was out in the garden, Davey and me. The lad loves the flowers, he was in among the daisies. I told him not to stray – and he was a good lad, he listened to his mum." Her face crumpled with pain and she hid behind John's handkerchief for a moment. She forced herself to regain control with a deep, shuddering breath. John noted that her hands had not stopped shaking, she was trembling all over now. "I wasn't watching him – it was sunset and I turned away to see it. I remember the sky was pink and orange... pale blue and deep midnight navy... stars already shining... when the sun went below the sea... my Davey was gone... just gone!" Peg MacFarland's face hardened. "We looked everywhere, Stan and me. Then I rung the police. It was full dark by then. I could see their flashlights as they searched the fields...the gorse ... farther and farther down the coast... they looked again at first light..." She swallowed hard. "They said he must have fallen in the sea... but he knew better, my Davey, as wee as he was, he knew better! He never would! He listened to his mum!" She broke down then, sobbing into the handkerchief.

John put his arm around her, tried to comfort her. He looked over her head at Sherlock – he was quite self-contained, listening intently. He caught John's questioning gaze.

"Tell him..." Sherlock addressed Peg MacFarland. "Tell him what your husband said."

Peg snuffled and choked a little, but she raised her head, her chin set stubbornly. "Stan says the fair folk took him – says they came back for their wee changeling... there's a ring of toadstools beyond the ferns... he'd always said it was a fairy ring... " She bowed her reddened face as the tears overtook her again.

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline – fairies!? Sherlock was smiling that satisfied smile – the one he got when a case really excited him. 

"I know you think it's daft – that I can't accept reality... but I know my Davey didn't fall into the sea. I know he's not dead."

John sat with her a while longer, asking questions about the investigation, about Davey. They had never received a ransom demand, so the coppers ruled out kidnapping. There was no evidence of foul play – no blood or bits of his clothes. The garden – and surrounding land – had been well trampled in the search, if there had been clues, tracks, footprints, anything like that, they had been eradicated. 

Later, John cornered Sherlock in the vestibule outside the bog.

"You took this case because she said 'fairies,' didn't you!?" It wasn't really a question.

"Of course." That smile again. John loved that smile and found it irritating in equal amounts. But as usual, Sherlock's enthusiasm for a case was contagious. John felt himself warming to the idea.

Or maybe he was warming to Sherlock's beauty. The force of his personality animating his strong features had always been irresistible to John...

"Why fairies? What about it made you want this case?"

"Did you note the day of his disappearance?"

"Erm... two weeks ago – June 20 I think she said."

"Solstice, John! The longest day of the year. The druids called it Alban Hefin – and would celebrate it on the shore! The Holly King was born on Alban Hefin..."

"What does any of that have to do with Davey MacFarland?" John asked.

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "Maybe nothing."

 

\---

 

The MacFarland home was a seven hundred year old stone cottage with a modest grandeur. It sat on a cliff overlooking the ocean, yellow fields of gorse and rape above and around it. The sound of the ocean was ever-present, the wind along the cliffs was brisk.

Peg led them into her home through a drafty mud room that opened into a short hall with a parlour to one side and a dining room on the other. The hall ended in stairwell with doors to the kitchen and butler's pantry adjacent. The kitchen was in the 250 year old 'new addition' – the stones of its walls were more regular than the rough fieldstone of the main structure. 

Peg took them stoically through the house, past a child's toys in the parlour, past a child's drawings on the fridge. There were family photos on the stair, John took a moment to examine photos of Davey MacFarland taken in each of his five years. He was an exceptionally attractive child with a sweet smile and curious, gray eyes.

Upstairs, she showed them the boy's bedroom – it was a bright, cheerful room with a small bed under the eaves, a blue blanket folded across, books and stuffed animals on shelves, crayons, coloring books, a see-and-say... there was a window seat with a worn green cushion overlooking the garden. John could see the daisies and the ocean beyond.

Peg's husband met them outdoors. He came through the gorse, his walk swaying now and again with a slight limp. He was John's height but twice as broad, even without his right arm and shoulder. There was scarring on his right cheek and neck that extended up into his dark ginger hair. 

Peg introduced them – unlike most people, Stan MacFarland fixated on John instead of Sherlock.

John felt weary – he'd had little sleep two days running. The Inn was comfortable enough... John had assumed he and Sherlock would share, he'd made sure their rooms adjoined. John had knocked on the adjoining door, it was late and he was looking forward to curling up with his lover for a few hours.

Sherlock hadn't opened the door very wide and he'd blocked the opening with his body.

"Yes?" He'd looked at John expectantly.

"Are you going to let me in?" John asked.

"No."

"Oh." John was surprised – Sherlock always chose to sleep with John whenever possible. "Why not?"

"I need to think."

"You can't think if I'm there?"

Sherlock had smiled very slightly, a rueful smile. "Not about anything but you."

John reached out and touched Sherlock's chest. He still wore his white shirt, it was rumpled from the long train ride. John ran his fingers down the placard, feeling the heat of Sherlock's body. "Would that be so bad?" He asked.

Sherlock's smile had faded, he'd trembled at John's touch. "I can't do this anymore, John. I love you and more than anything I want to be with you... but not this way, not the way it's been." Sherlock's baritone faltered but he set his jaw and continued. "It's not your fault, John – I left you. It was a mistake, but I can't take it back. And now you have someone else." Sherlock passed his hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the pain. "I'll always be your friend, John. But I can't be your lover anymore. That's over."

Before John had even processed the words, Sherlock shut the door between their rooms. John heard the lock turn with a solid 'chunk.'

John had lain awake in his own bed until five am, his thoughts whirling. Then he'd dressed in trainers and sweats and gone running. He'd started running again after Sherlock's funeral. The exercise was a good outlet – it allowed him to express his guilt by punishing his body. Today he ran himself hard, sprinting into the stiff wind over and over, running uphill through the gorse, charging along the cliff's edge. He was drenched in sweat when he returned to his room.

John had expected Sherlock to break off their affair months ago – he still couldn't quite believe Sherlock had agreed to the casual arrangement in the first place, not after he'd proposed so very sincerely. (Twice!) It had been difficult, balancing his two relationships, he always felt like he was giving one or the other short shrift... felt like he was cheating both of them – and both deserved so much better. He couldn't understand why either of them settled for HIM, let alone half of him.

The inevitability of the breakup with Sherlock had sunk John's already debilitating depression to new depths. To protect himself, John had pushed Sherlock away, trying to inoculate himself from the pain... 

It hadn't worked. It hurt worse than he'd ever imagined.

 

\---

 

Whilst Peg MacFarland was showing Sherlock the garden, John hung back with Stan. Over coffee that morning, Sherlock had assigned the task of questioning Davey's father to John because "you're both soldiers."

Stan MacFarland seemed to agree with Sherlock – he showed a keen interest in John. 

"Doctor Watson?" Stan asked.

"Call me 'John,' please."

"John... you're Captain John Watson?" It wasn't really a question.

"Er, yes. I was."

"Gunnery Sergeant Stanley MacFarland of the Royal Highland Rangers." Stan said, saluting. 

John snapped to attention and returned the salute marveling at how natural it still felt, how automatic. 

"You probably don't remember me, Doc – you must have seen dozens of men hit by IEDs – but you saved my life. That's what the nurses told me. Said you stopped me bleedin' out on the table. And you saved my knee – the other docs wanted to cut my leg above the knee, but you repaired the artery. I can't tell you how glad I am to have my knee!"

John examined the man – he HAD worked on many, many wounded soldiers. But not so many that lost their arm above the shoulder and part of a leg. He frowned in thought. "I remember the surgery... you saved half your regiment, Gunny, least I could do was preserve the knee."

They shook hands – a bit awkwardly as John had his right hand and MacFarland his left. But Stan seemed used to the awkwardness, not ill-at-ease in the least.

"Are you still doctoring?" 

John raised his left arm, the pincer-hook gleaming in the light. "I'm not much use as a surgeon these days." He said.

"Ach, Doc, that's hard cheese. And a loss for the profession!" The man sighed. "I was a joiner and a cabinet maker – but you need two hands for that work. Now I just farm rape." Stan shook off the disappointment with an effort. "At least you've still got your elbow – that's a blessing."

His doctors had told John much the same, and John hadn't paid attention. But this man, this combat veteran and double amputee, his words broke through John's shell – he'd lost so much more than John. And now his son too.

"Tell me the truth, Doc, is there any hope for our little Davey?"

"Sherlock is the best." John assured him. "He'll discover what happened to your son."

The man nodded. "You think he's dead?"

"I don't know, Gunny. I hope not. But either way, Sherlock will find the truth."

"I suppose that's the best I can hope for."

John touched the man's arm. "I know it's hard, but don't give up hope. That's how I saved your knee – I had hope."

 

\---

 

Sherlock surreptitiously watched John speaking with Stan MacFarland. As he had expected, the two soldiers formed an immediate bond. 

He hadn't known MacFarland was an amputee – for a second he'd worried about John's reaction. But he needn't have – John had always been good with other people's tragedies, much more so than his own.

Peg caught him looking. 

"How long have you loved him?" She asked.

"Is it that obvious?"

She smiled – not much, her missing boy took up most of her bandwidth. "Yes. Does he know?"

"Oh, yes. We... " Sherlock faltered. "He has someone else."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's entirely my own fault. Now, tell me what you did the day Davey disappeared, starting when you woke up."

As he listened, Sherlock followed John with his eyes.

 

\---

 

He hadn't intended to break it off. 

When John had knocked softly on their common door, Sherlock's stomach did a backflip in heady anticipation. He had John all to himself!

For as long as this case lasted...

Then he'd go back to Shane. And he'd say what he'd intended to say that morning. John would say what Sherlock did not want to hear.

Sherlock couldn't bear it.

He'd opened the door and looked into John's beloved face... and he'd known he had to end it.

It was so simple he marveled that he hadn't thought of it before. 

But John had thought about it – Sherlock saw in his face that he had even expected it... but how could he when Sherlock hadn't known he was going to do it until that very minute?

After, he shut and locked the door quickly. It would be so easy to take it back, to walk through the door and into John's arms. And he wanted to! Oh, how he wanted to!

He wished he could ask John why he felt this way – so certain of two opposing facts: that he loved John with all his heart and that he couldn't be with him any longer. That this was the right thing to do even though it felt like he'd set himself on fire, his flesh burning, pain blossoming endlessly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next - the faerie ring!


	3. The Tombola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock make headway on the case.

John pushed Sherlock down into the mattress – he'd woken up hard and Sherlock had been fondling him.... teasing him. They'd kissed, slowly, enjoying the arousal.

Mornings were for making love. Other times of the day, John would fuck Sherlock as roughly as he wanted, he would happily tie his lover up, call him a dirty slut and pound his greedy hole. But in the morning John liked it sweeter and slower with lots of snogging. That didn't mean he held back – he still gave Sherlock the pounding he craved – but he did it looking at Sherlock's face, taking in his expressions of pleasure, memorizing how he looked as he came...

John rolled on top, grinding his cock into Sherlock's abdomen, feeling the taller man getting hard against his hip. He worked his fingers through Sherlock's curls and tugged – Sherlock moaned and wrapped his long legs around John's hips.

"You're so beautiful." John murmured, his voice low and husky. He pulled Sherlock's hair again.

"Oh, John..."

"I want you so much."

"I want you too..."

"I love fucking you.."

Sherlock was flushed, pink high on his cheeks. John smiled and lavished attention on a nipple making Sherlock arch underneath him. He kissed this beautiful man wondering how he'd ever got so lucky. He kissed Sherlock thoroughly, kissing and teasing him until he squirmed under John, desperate for more.

Only then did he shift back, lifting himself up onto his knees. He pushed Sherlock's legs forward all the way to his chest. "Hold them there." He directed.

Sherlock dutifully wrapped his hands around the backs of his thighs, pulling his knees into his shoulders, opening himself up to John.

John kissed Sherlock's exposed hamstring gently, nipped at his gluteus, kissed a line straight to Sherlock's perineum and tongued it lavishly. 

"Oh!" Sherlock rocked his hips. John licked the underside of Sherlock's bollocks, sucking part into his mouth, enjoying the moans and groans of pleasure.

Then he moved lower and kissed the tight bud of muscle, working it with his tongue, penetrating into the darkness within. He tasted of soap and musk no hint of their coupling last night. John dove deeply, applying himself to his work. 

Sherlock moaned, his fingers finding John's hair. John ate his arse, making it slick with his saliva.

When he judged Sherlock was sufficiently primed, John lifted up and lay on top of him once more, kissing him, enjoying Sherlock's delight at tasting himself on John's tongue. He reached over for the lube.

John squeezed lube onto his fingers and pressed them into Sherlock. Sherlock wiggled his arse trying to take them deeper. 

"I don't deserve you." John whispered in Sherlock's ear, biting his earlobe.

"Uhn! Fuck me."

John gave him another finger, laughing as Sherlock tried to press his hips forward.

"Do you like that?" John twisted his hand to stroke a finger across Sherlock's prostate.

"OHHH!" Sherlock's whole body bucked as if electrified. He reach his hand towards his own prick, weeping copiously against his belly.

"No." John commanded. "No hands." 

Sherlock pulled his hand back to his thigh, spreading himself wider still. "Please, John, I need your cock..."

John rubbed the fat, damp head of his prick against Sherlock's hole.

"Uhhhhh! Yes... John...!"

He teased Sherlock, rubbing harder.

"John! Please, fuck me!"

John pushed the head in. Sherlock's tight ring skinned his foreskin back, pinning it down as he pressed slowly in.

"Ohhh, you feel SO good." John moaned. He pushed Sherlock's legs more firmly into his shoulders as he leaned forward to kiss him some more. He loved kissing the outrageous lips – especially as he buried his cock to the hilt in Sherlock's arse.

He started to move... Sherlock's eyes fluttered open... and John's heart broke with love. How had this magnificent creature chosen him? It was incredible.

"I love you." John told him. "I love you so much!"

"Yes." Sherlock breathed the syllable, taut muscles straining against John. 

John picked up the pace, sawing determinedly, hips snapping. He watched Sherlock's face, seeing the lust in his eyes, the pleasure... 

Sherlock started to beg John to fuck him harder, faster. John obliged, ramming his hips against Sherlock's arse like a hammer – like a jackhammer – never taking his eyes off Sherlock's beautiful face.

"I love how you feel." John crooned, knowing Sherlock liked to hear it. He slammed his cock all the way in – it felt amazing, so tight, so yielding. So hot.

John fucked him thoroughly, varying his rhythm, sometimes stroking sometimes punching his cock into Sherlock's greedy arse. 

"John... John..." Sherlock moaned.

"What is it love?" 

"I... I..."

"I'm here, love." John caressed his cheek.

"Don't stop... please, don't stop."

"Never, my love. Never ever." He sawed away, feeling his bollocks tighten as his climax drew near.

Sherlock came suddenly, his prick swelling between them, John fucked him through it, even as his own orgasm overtook him. He emptied his balls deep inside Sherlock, straining and shuddering with the jolts of pleasure. As he finished he collapsed on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock let his legs down, sighing. John laughed with joy, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, both their chests sticky with cum. He was laughing and kissing Sherlock again and again. "I love you." He said – the words were inadequate to express his happiness, his complete and perfect (and perfectly terrifying) happiness... "I love you!"

John woke up slowly, realizing his phone was buzzing. He rubbed his face feeling logy and slow. His cock was hard, he touched it remembering the erotic dream... he'd had it before. It had never happened exactly that way...

In real life, John had stopped himself from telling Sherlock how much he loved him. He'd said the nasty things, the dirty talk that turned Sherlock on, he'd gazed into the blue eyes, glazed with lust, but he'd never said what he wanted to say. What he should have said.

It was too late now.

Maybe it had always been too late.

It was early evening. John had lain down in his hotel room for a kip – about four hours ago. He was tired, he hadn't slept at all last night. Not after Sherlock dumped him. It was tempting to simply ignore his phone and stay in bed. Bed was safe. He didn't have to face himself. And when he slept, sometimes he had lovely dreams. Everything seemed easy in those dreams.

But Davey MacFarland was out there somewhere – hopefully alive. If he did nothing else, he was determined to help find the boy. Peg and Stan deserved that. But it was hard to face Sherlock... John had really cocked everything up...

He gritted his teeth against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him again.

He stretched and made himself sit up, picking up the phone. He had several text messages.

**You coming over tonight?**

Shane. How had he forgotten about Shane? 

**John?** This from Shane two hours after the first. Even when he was feeling very low, he answered Shane's texts. He didn't want Shane to know how bad he'd gotten. 

John lied to everyone eventually.

He needed to answer. 

*Can't tonight- helping SH w a case*

Shane answered right away. **A case or a "case?"**

John knew Shane wanted details about sex with Sherlock – something John was completely unwilling to share. He wasn't unwilling to cuckold his boyfriend in theory, just not with Sherlock. Never with Sherlock.

And John knew Shane would be upset if he knew they didn't use condoms. He had every right to be upset.

*Missing child. Might take a few days*

**shit**

*Yeah – has M. Dusette got in contact?*

**YES! You would not believe her stories! Amazing woman. I hope she'll agree to let me write about her.**

*:)*

**Thanks for reaching out to her on my behalf**

*You saved her life, she likes you*

**Is that all it takes?**

If that's all it took, Shane and Sherlock would be best friends.

*Hey, got to dash. Talk later.*

"You're a twat, Watson." John told himself. "You're a bloody liar and a twat." He knew it and he hated himself for it.

 

\---

 

"The fête? Tell me more about that." Sherlock instructed. They were having dinner with the MacFarlands – at least John was having dinner. Sherlock was sitting at table with an empty plate in front of him, his fingers steepled.

"It was just a village fête." Peg said. "Rosemarkie has one every year on Solstice."

"Even if it's midweek?" John asked.

"Yeah. Bit of residual druidism, they say. There's even a ceremony to welcome the dawn o'er on the beach by Balmungie. Some barmy duffers even wear robes." Peg MacFarland was eating very little of her supper.

"The fête." Sherlock prompted with a hint of impatience.

"It was the same as every year – there's pipers and highland dancing, a jumble sale, coconut shy, a tombola and bat a rat. A herding competition and a caber toss. Most locals donate a pie or cake, jam or summat to benefit the school. I made bramble pie this year."

"So you went to the fête?"

"Stan and I always go – Stan plays the pipes..."

"Just rhythm since I've been 'short handed."' Stan put in. "But I march in the band every year."

"And I make a pie, like I said."

"You took Davey?"

"Of course. He drew numbers from the drum for the tombola this year. He had a grand time up on the stage. He's sweet-natured, but he's never been shy, he loved the attention. Took it very serious, I was so proud of him. Then we had cake and Davey ran in circles with some other lads. He fell asleep in the car on the way home, slept for hours – that's why he was still up at sunset, I wanted him to sleep through 'til morning." Peg squeezed her eyes shut tightly, but tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry." She said, dabbing at her face with her napkin.

"I'm sorry if we upset you." John said.

"If we're finished apologizing..." Sherlock was now plainly impatient. John shot him a look, but Sherlock ignored it. "Do you get tourists at the fête? People from other villages or from Inverness?"

"Yeees..." Stan answered slowly. "There's always some camping cars by the beach and in Angus Stuart's field... I don't know everyone in the village, but we get quite a crowd – especially for the herding. Farmers bring their dogs from all around." Stan exchanged a glance with his wife. "You think someone at the fête took Davey?"

"Well, how do we–?"

"Shush! I'm thinking." Sherlock sat quietly for a long minute. The MacFarlands watched, startled then apprehensive. Peg shot a questioning glance at John, but John just shrugged. 

"Records!" Sherlock said suddenly, making everyone jump. "We need records!"

"Records? Of what?"

"The fête! Who bought something with a credit card? Who bought a ticket for the tombola? Who brought herding dogs? Who signed up for the caber toss? And license plates! Does Angus Stuart keep a record of who camps in his field? The camper cars at the beach – are they squatting or does someone let them the parking space? Do the police keep track of them? Oh! Police records! Who was causing trouble? Who was stopped for speeding or public drunkenness? We need records!"

Peg looked like her head was spinning, but Stan had already grabbed pencil and paper and was jotting down notes. "Johnny Black would know about the caber toss. Miranda McTierney runs the herding competition every year. The church does the tombola, the vicar's wife would have the list of everyone who bought tickets – she might still have it as she mails out the unclaimed prizes to ticket holders. I can call Angus, ask about the camper cars. Aaaand Inspector Martin is in charge of Davey's case, she might be able to tell us what the police know."

"Good! Stan, make those calls. John, off to the police station to talk to Inspector Martin – call Lestrade on the way, see if he can 'grease the wheels.' So to speak."

"Right." John said, standing up from the table, thankful for a sense of purpose – one that took him away from Sherlock for a while. It was terrible, being near him. John never should have slept with him. He should have found a way to resist.

"Peg!" Sherlock called. "Show me the faerie ring in the garden."

John stopped in his tracks and stared, looking between Peg and Sherlock.

"It was trampled in the search. Everything was trampled – the garden, half the rape... all for naught."

"No, not for naught. Show me where the faerie ring was. It's important."

 

\---

 

Inspector Martin was a petite honey blond with intelligent brown eyes and a brusque manner that John assumed she adopted to compensate for her femininity. He was dimly aware that she was the sort of woman he had always found attractive – in what felt like a previous life. Someone else's life.

At that moment she was on the phone with Inspector Lestrade, glaring at John whenever he entered her field of vision.

"That was the strangest conversation I've ever had with a colleague." She said when she rang off. "Bar none."

"Erm, right..."

"A highly regarded detective inspector from Scotland Yard assures me that giving you whatever information you ask for will help me close the Davey MacFarland case – Davey MacFarland who is almost certainly at the bottom of the firth by now."

"Wouldn't the tide have brought him ashore already?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it has and we just haven't found where yet."

"I thought the tides were relatively predictable."

"Relatively. There are all sorts of variables."

"Mm. Well, it doesn't matter because Davey didn't fall into the sea."

"You don't know that."

"And you don't know that he did. There's no proof, no evidence that he went into the water. It's just a guess."

She sagged a little and rubbed her eyes. "You're right. There's no evidence that he fell in the water, and there's no evidence he was killed by his parents, or a serial killer or a drifter, no evidence he was snatched... there's NO EVIDENCE. He might as well have been taken to faerie land through a ring of toadstools for all the evidence shows." She sighed. "What do you want to know?"

John reached in his pocket. "Here, I made a list..."

 

\---

 

Sherlock watched John walk out to the car, Stan MacFarland at his side. John smiled encouragingly at the bereaved father and touched his arm... for a brief second, Sherlock was insanely jealous of Stan...

He had to get hold of himself!

John was a distraction. He'd been right to go away, try and free himself from this ridiculous attachment. He simply hadn't tried hard enough – he'd been weak. And stupid. He'd let the therapist convince him to come back because that's what he wanted to do.

Everything was messed up now – Sherlock still wasn't certain what it was he'd done to upset John so much, to make him angry and cruel most of the time.

He just wasn't made for relationships. They either bored him or they hurt him.

Fuck, it was agony!

Sherlock wished it didn't hurt SO MUCH. The pain was slowing him down, he'd needed most of the afternoon to focus in on the tombola – he could have already been to the vicarage for the list of ticket holders!

Bloody hell, why did this hurt so much!?

"It was here." Peg said. She led Sherlock exactly where he'd expected, to a small copse of wind-crooked trees at the edge of the garden. When she'd said 'ferns' he knew there must be trees – ferns need shade, not something in abundance on the fields overlooking the North Sea. Toadstools also prefer shade – not exclusively, but more often than not. 

A copse of trees could be a hiding place – somewhere to watch the MacFarland household without being seen. Somewhere to lie in wait for the chance to snatch a small boy from his bedroom after his parents went to sleep.

But then chance had favoured the kidnapper – Davey had wandered close to the trees at dusk whilst his mother had been distracted by the sunset. Davey had been snatched up, probably drugged, and carried out quickly through the gorse. Between the gorse bushes and the darkness, the kidnapper had escaped unseen whilst Peg and Stan searched their house and garden.

It was obvious. All that was left was the small matter of discovering the kidnapper's identity and location.

 

\---

 

Sherlock had been in his room at the Inn for forty-three minutes before he heard, through the adjoining door, John returning to his.

"Finally!" He muttered. He snapped back the deadbolt and flung open the door.

John jumped, yelping in surprise. "Jesus, Sherlock! Don't DO that to me." He said, hand over his racing heart.

"What did you find out?" Sherlock demanded.

John sighed and he glowered. "Inspector Martin was very helpful." He said, sarcasm in his voice. He hefted a stack of files. "Everything on and around June 20 – and I mean everything–" He started reading off the files, tossing them on the bed as he went. "Spitting, speeding, causing a disturbance, illegal parking, public intoxication, rowing, domestic disturbance, concern in the supply of drugs, littering, soliciting, petty theft... etcetera." John dropped the rest of the papers on the bed en masse. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I was going to start looking through them. Any idea what I'm looking for?"

"No."

"Right." John sat wearily on the bed. "What about you? Find anything useful at the faerie ring?"

"Yes."

John looked at him expectantly. When Sherlock didn't elaborate, he sighed again and looked away. "Right. Of course. If there's nothing else..."

Sherlock didn't move... he had more questions, he just didn't know how to ask them.

John waited until it was obvious Sherlock wasn't leaving. "What do you want, Sherlock? Breakup sex?"

"Breakup sex? Is that ...customary?"

"No. I'm sorry. It's a joke... I was being a twat." John still wasn't looking at him.

"John... you know I'm not good at all that... relationships... sentiment... I thought I could learn..." Dammit! He was going to cry! He could feel the bloody tears pricking his eyelids. Why was he going to cry?! It didn't make sense! None of this made sense. "John, will you tell me what I did wrong?"

John was staring at him. "What do you mean?" He asked. "You didn't do anything..."

"I upset you – I said or did... something... and then you were angry with me... almost all the time. Tell me what it was. Please, I just want to know." He felt a traitorous tear streak down his face and linger on his chin.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John was suddenly very close. He reached out and gently brushed the tear from Sherlock's chin, his touch feather-light. "You didn't do anything wrong. It was me – I treated you badly... I don't know why. I was stupid. I was wrong, not you."

"But... it ... it had to be me... it doesn't make sense otherwise..."

"It DOESN'T make sense." John agreed. "I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"No, John, there has to be a reason... this – we – can't be over for no reason."

John looked haggard. He turned away. "I know it hurts – it's painful for me too. TOO painful. Sherlock, after this case, after we find Davey, I can't see you, not for a while."

"Of course... I'll move my things out–"

"No. No need. Shane's asked me to move in with him."

"Oh. He finally told you about his money."

"You knew about that!?"

"It was obvious!"

John had turned back towards Sherlock, his expressive face twisted in agony... he had something to say, Sherlock could see that plainly – then just as plainly, John decided not to say it. Sherlock had seen that little war consume John these last months. He didn't say what he clearly wanted to say... and then he'd be distant... or cruel...

Sherlock took his arm, wrapped his long fingers around John's bicep. "What is it?" He asked. "What is it that you aren't saying?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying. I've seen it over and over, it's clear as day – there's something you aren't telling me."

John shrugged, miserable. Tears were welling in his eyes now too. "I love you." He whispered. "That's all."

That's all?? That was everything! Pulling John into his arms, fitting his hands around John's waist, across his back, felt natural. And John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's body as they had a thousand times. It felt like home.

He could feel John shaking. But his face, pressed against Sherlock's shoulder, was still. He buried his own face in John's hair, smelling his shampoo and pomade...

Sherlock wondered if this meant they were back together – John loved him! But he'd said he was moving in with Shane...

"Don't move in with him." Sherlock said. "Stay with me – be with me. Not him. Tell him it's over."

John slowly pulled away. He stepped back and pushed Sherlock's hands away.

"I... I..." shadows crossed John's face and Sherlock knew he'd lost. "I have to get some sleep." He said. John went back to the bed and started tidying the files into stacks that he transferred to the desk. "Close the door when you go..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is John REALLY going to let Sherlock leave the room this way?


	4. Gathering Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter for the exposition faerie.

"No, wait..." Sherlock turned back from the adjoining door, John's tone of voice crushing any hope he might have had that he'd changed his mind. "Why didn't you tell me about Shane? About his money."

"I knew you'd hate it. And it was obvious that you liked him."

"So you took it upon yourself to withhold information, did you? You didn't trust me to make my own decision? An informed decision?"

John was furious. With that horrible, biting, caustic fury that Sherlock had gotten to know only too well these past months. "If you recall," Sherlock said carefully. "Shane and I were in direct competition... for you – until our truce in hospital. I wanted you to choose me on my merit alone, not because of something distasteful about him. And you wouldn't have liked hearing it from me – you would have found some way to blame me." Sherlock balled his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms, determined not to cry now – tears just made THIS John crueler. "Although it seems like you're managing to blame me anyway." He finished softly.

"I'm just so SICK of being managed." John spat. "Handled. I don't NEED you to protect me."

"I know you don't –"

"Yet you do it anyway! You just can't help yourself. You accused Moriarty of being a spider at the center of a web, but you get off on pulling MY strings just as much as he did!" John flung the file he was holding and the three papers in it came apart mid-air and floated gently to the floor. John frowned at them, looking affronted at the ineffectuality of the gesture. "I'm sick of you manipulating me."

"I don't –"

"No, don't even try! Missing child?? How long did it take you to find this case?! One I couldn't say 'no' to."

Sherlock felt guilt gnaw at him. "You're right." He admitted. "When Peg MacFarland came to see me, I WAS happy. I LIKE it when we work together, John. I want to work with you on all my cases – our cases."

"Really? I thought all you wanted was laid."

Sherlock abruptly stopped himself from retorting. He'd asked John what he'd done wrong, maybe John was trying to tell him. There was a pattern here – Sherlock had said it himself: everything would be good – really good – John would seem happy, but would stop himself from saying so, then he'd shut Sherlock out, become argumentative and mean. Why hadn't Sherlock seen it before now? 

Sentiment! Bloody sentiment clouding his perceptions! Even now it was coursing through him, needy and demanding.

He made an effort to set it aside. "John, do you really think all I want from you is sex?"

"You've said as much. And you were very willing to accept bits and scraps of a relationship as long as you got fucked. What am I supposed to think?"

"Because I accepted the bargain – that you and I could be together if I tolerated your relationship with Shane – you think that's ALL I wanted?"

"You never seemed bothered."

"Because I was afraid you'd call it off if I put up a fuss."

"Really? When have you EVER held back? Your tantrums are legendary."

"I thought... I've never had a love relationship before. You know that. I don't know how I'm supposed to act. I don't know what's expected. I was trying... I was trying to – you acted like having two lovers was completely normal... I had to assume it was."

"You're blaming me?"

"No! Never. I left – and I let you believe I had died. Everything – this is all my fault! I hurt you. My enemies hurt you... you would have been better off if we'd never met!"

John looked stunned. Finally he looked up at Sherlock. "Do you really believe that?"

Sherlock wrung his hands in despair. "All evidence supports it... but, no, I can't bring myself to believe it. I can't regret YOU, John. I only regret the mistakes I've made."

John was silent. Sherlock couldn't read what he was feeling. When had John gotten so good at hiding his emotions from Sherlock?

"For the record..." Sherlock said quietly. "I was never 'ok' with you seeing both of us. I would have understood if you had chosen him, but you... you chose to be with ME, how could you want him too? I've never understood and I hated it. I begrudged every second you gave him. I didn't let you see my tantrums, but that doesn't mean I didn't have them."

John didn't reply. He seemed to sag, his posture losing firmness, losing purpose. Sherlock waited, his breath loud in his ears, feeling his heart pumping in his head and arms.

But John didn't move. He didn't look at Sherlock, he didn't speak. 

"Ok...erm, goodnight." Sherlock said into the terrible silence. He retreated to the door leading to his room. "I'll see you in the morning." 

In his own room, the adjoining door closed and locked again, Sherlock pondered the conversation. He had taken relationship cues from John... but that hadn't been right. In a way, the realization was a relief – it had been awful, pretending everything was ok when it very much wasn't.

John accused Sherlock of being selfish, of being over-dramatic and unable to control his emotions... but that was what John had wanted.

 

\---

 

The vicar's wife, Morag MacNeil, DID still have the names of everyone who'd bought a ticket in the Tombola. She had the winning tickets taped to a sheet of paper with a notes on whether they'd collected their prize at the fête, if she had to take it to them or mail it to them, and if she had, in fact, accomplished it. Tickets that hadn't been drawn were still in the Tombola bucket in the vicarage garage. 

After Sherlock explained why he wanted them, Morag happily turned them over – and just as happily spent several hours of her morning going over them with Sherlock, categorizing them: people she knew; people she didn't know who lived nearby; people from farther away. 

Statistically, Davey was more likely to have been taken by someone he knew peripherally, someone who saw him regularly and had become fixated. That person would have trouble concealing Davey in their own home, so first order of business was discovering who had left town, especially those who left the night of June 20, or first thing June 21.

Second most likely was an out of town stranger who saw Davey for the first time at the fête – he had been the center of attention when he drew the winning Tombola tickets – and followed the MacFarlands home. 

Sherlock left the list of locals to Morag – she was well-equipped to check in with each, by phone or in person, discover who was on holiday, and get a bit of gossip about someone who had left suddenly or was acting strangely.

He took the list of out-of-towners to John, thinking to cross-reference the names with those in the police reports, see if anyone stood out.

But John wasn't in his room – and neither were the files.

 

\---

 

John had slept. 

He hadn't expected to – John expected another sleepless night of guilt, self-recrimination and crushing ennui.

But he slept. He woke early – and easily without the desire to just stay in bed – and went running. He ran towards the coast this morning, across sheep pastures, scrambling down hillsides covered in gorse and scree, and finally running on the narrow strip of wet, pebbly sand next to the water itself. 

The air was crisp and refreshing, the ever present sound of the tide relaxing. John found himself enjoying the exercise.

He returned to the Inn for a wash and to start in on the police files... but John was restless. The room took him back to the conversation last night... he'd learned a few things about Sherlock, about himself... mostly that they had to be honest with each other or it wouldn't work.

John couldn't expect Sherlock to act or react typically – and John HAD expected that, unconsciously. He'd expected this relationship to conform to the patterns and customs of all his previous relationships. 

But Sherlock wasn't like other people. John knew that – but he'd expected that Sherlock would at least be typical Sherlock. 

But Sherlock hadn't. His stunning ignorance of everything he deemed 'unnecessary' had, until recently, included relationships. Sherlock had been faking it – he had no idea what he was doing.

John felt like laughing... which made him feel like crying...

They'd really cocked everything up, the two of them. 

The room was suffocating, he couldn't stand it one more second. John gathered the files up and left the room.

 

\---

 

John found Stan MacFarland surveying his rape field.

"Will you still be able to harvest where it's been trampled?" John asked, looking at the many paths through the crops.

"Should." Stan said. He shook his head as if trying to wake up. "I should be doing something... I haven't tended the bees in weeks, I should have had the honey out by now ... I just can't seem to focus."

"Of course you can't – your little boy is out there somewhere..."

Stan turned haunted eyes to John. "Do you really think so? I know Peg thinks he's alive – that's why she went all the way to London to talk to Sherlock Holmes. But I... I'm not so sure..."

"Yeah, Gunny." John said. "I really do. The more we look at this, the more convinced I am that he's been kidnapped."

Stan nodded. "And then I think, why? Why would someone take a little lad? It's not for ransom - we don't have any money. And we never got a note or a call... there's only one reason I can think of... some sick fuck is... is abusing him..."  
Stan broke off, overcome.

John put his hand on the former soldier's shoulder and squeezed. "I can't tell you that's NOT what happened." He said. "But Inspector Martin already checked out everyone in the area on the sex offenders database – and she cleared them all. Thoroughly. None of them have – or had – Davey. Last night we ran the names of everyone that's gotten a ticket or a charge – even just a caution – in the last month through the database and we didn't get any hits. Martin sent Davey's photo to other districts, and they're running down more people on the list.

"Sherlock's in the village now, collecting the names of people at the fête – especially those who participated in the Tombola – and Inspector Martin will run those too. We'll find him." Stan swiped at the tears in his eyes miserably. "There are other reasons children are kidnapped." John told him.

"Why... but why else would someone take him?!"

John sighed. "Sometimes when a parent loses a child, or can't have children, they fixate on someone else's kid. They become convinced that the child is theirs. Or they know he's not, but they want him enough to steal him anyway. I won't lie, someone that unstable may very well lack... good parenting skills." John grimaced at the euphemism. "But chances are good that Davey has food and shelter and someone looking after him."

"How could I make him feel safe ever again?"

"Gunny... Stan... one thing at a time. Let's get him back first."

Stan nodded. "You're right, Doc... you're right... let's get him back..."

"Yeah. Hey – I have these police reports to go through. Do you want to help."

Stan looked grateful. "I would, Doc." They headed towards the cottage together.

Three hours later, his eyes beginning to blur as he read the small type. John got a text from Sherlock.

***Where are you?***

*MacFarlands*

***headway with the files?***

*some interesting details in the file for Davey's disappearance*

***good. We need to coordinate***

*ok*

John waited five minutes before he received another text.

***I'll come to you***

John ALMOST laughed. He rubbed his eyes – why were police reports always so boring?

His mobile buzzed again and John pulled it out to see what else Sherlock had to say.

**still working on the case?**

Shane. John immediately felt guilty – he'd forgotten to text Shane earlier.

*yeah. Following some leads. I'm hopeful*

**would I be in the way if I stopped by?**  
**I miss you**  
**a little**

*I miss you too – not at home tho.*

**maybe later**

"Fuck." John muttered. Stan looked up from his file. "How's the mobile reception in your garden?" John asked. "I have to make a call."

"It's best between the house and the barn."

"Ok, cheers." John left the cottage, dialing Shane's number as he walked around the house.

"John?" Shane answered almost immediately.

"Yeah, hiya."

"Look, I don't want to be in the way." Shane said. "I know how much I hate being interrupted when I'm writing, so if coming over is a bad idea..."

"I'm in Scotland." John said.

"What?"

"Scotland. The little boy was taken – we think he was taken – from his home near Inverness."

Shane was silent for a long second. John could hear him breathing. "When did you go to Scotland?" He finally asked, his voice flatter than John was used to hearing.

"Sunday – we caught the Great Northern Sunday afternoon."

"This... forgive me if I'm being paranoid – or ridiculously self-centered – but does this have anything to do with asking you to move in with me? Because the timing..."

"No, of course not."

"You're up there with Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"Ok." Shane sounded very far from Ok.

"The mother came to see us. If I can help her, I have to."

"No, I get that. I'm sorry, I'm just feeling jealous – I know I'm being ridiculous. But... you and Sherlock there together. It must be cozy."

"It's not. Erm... We're not sleeping together anymore."

"Oh."

"I thought you'd be happier to hear that."

"No, I am... just... why?"

John wished he could tell Shane it was because he wanted to take that next step with him, move in together, be exclusive (or mostly exclusive). But he couldn't.

"Because I'm a dick and I treated him like shit. He'd had enough."

"He broke it off. Not you."

"Yeah."

"Right. Ok."

"I told him I was going to move in with you."

"You told him..." John heard the unspoken 'not me.'

"Yeah, well, it just came up. It's not easy, being here with him like this."

"Yeah, I imagine it could be quite awkward."

"Shane..." John sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm cocking everything up. I've been focusing on this case. The second we find the boy, I'm on a train to London."

"No, John, I'm sorry." John was relieved to hear the conciliatory tone in Shane's voice. "Of course you're focused on the little boy. I don't know why I'm acting this way."

"I shouldn't have left you hanging. We have a lot to work out before I move in... we have a lot to talk about."

Shane sighed. "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

"Will you call me again tomorrow?"

"I will. Sooner if we find him."

"Good luck!"

"Ta...ok...bye." John rang off. He'd made a complete mess of one relationship, he was determined not to fuck up this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting chapter five now!


	5. If Wishes Were Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lovely interlude.

Sherlock was flagging.

He'd spent all morning on names. Cross-checking them, googling them, tracking down addresses... there were so many names! 

There had to be a way to narrow it down.

He ruled out children under twelve and families with children – he hoped they'd find Davey long before he could get back to that pile.

The kidnapper was almost certainly a single person – male or female – or a couple with a weaker partner under the thrall of the dominant partner.

Unless Davey had been killed quickly... no body had been found, but sometimes they weren't. Sherlock mentally filed that thought and shut the drawer firmly. He would open it only when all other possibilities had been tried and retried.

Morag MacNeil was working steadily through her list of locals, and the police were tracking down people on Sherlock's 'A' list. Sherlock himself had started on the mind-numbing amount of CCTV footage. For a small village, there were a lot of cameras – the bank alone had two, one looking out at the village green. 

"What are we watching?" Inspector Martin.

"The fête. The Tombola is over here." Sherlock pointed to the background on the left hand side of the screen. "It's not the best view. When can I see the footage from the other cameras looking at the green?"

"We're pulling it." She said.

"And the intersection on the coast road? A camper car is a good bet, I need to see who drove through there on June 20 and 21."

"We've already reviewed that footage."

"But you didn't know what to look for – no, don't give me that look, you know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do." She replied cooly.

"Just get me the footage."

Sherlock had gone out to the MacFarland cottage earlier. He'd expected to find John with the police files, but he found Stan MacFarland alone with them. 

"Where's John?"

"He went out a while ago. Said he had to make a phone call."

Sherlock gave Stan the list of names he'd gleaned from the Tombola tickets and asked him to start cross referencing. "I'll get John to help." He said, distractedly.

It was a glorious day outside – bright and warm, the coastal winds blowing more lightly than usual. The air smelled heavy – of the flowers in the garden, the hay-like aroma of gorse, the salty tang of the sea. Sherlock walked around the cottage, then towards the barn. 

The barn was more of an equipment shed. The MacFarlands kept chickens in an adjacent hutch, but other than a cat or two, there were no animals in the barn. There weren't any people in there either.

Sherlock left the barn and circled around towards the rape fields. He thought he heard something over the sound of the ocean... a buzzing... turning past a shrubbery, he abruptly discovered an apiary, with bees busy gathering nectar from the rape blossoms. John stood there, studying the bees.

"I've been looking for you." Sherlock said. John looked dazzling in the sunlight, all the colors heightened – his ginger hair aglow, his eyes a clear green-gray. He was thinner now than he should be, but his muscular chest and thighs looked powerful. He was still the most capable man Sherlock had ever known.

"Stan was saying that he should have harvested the honey already." John said. "I was wondering how to do that."

"Well, you'd want to wait until early evening, when it's cooler." Sherlock said. 

"You know how?"

"Yes. It's simple really. You take out the frames – those – and drain the honey into jars. Then cut away about three quarters of the comb for pressing – that yields more honey and beeswax. Then you replace the comb you've cut out with fresh. I saw some replacement combs in the barn." Sherlock studied the hive. "Stan's right – the hive is getting ready to swarm. Best get the honey out before that happens."

"How do you know?"

"The honey smell is strong. There's congestion at the entrance." Sherlock pointed. "See, a lot of bees just clustering there. And the guards – just there – are getting anxious that we're nearby. Soon they'll send out a patrol to attack us."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course."

John started backing away. "Will they sting?"

"That's what bees do."

"Let's get out of here."

John turned and walked away from the apiary, farther out into the fields. 

Sherlock watched the hive a moment longer. He'd always loved bees. He was convinced that if he watched them long enough, the patterns in their flight would be revealed to him. He shook off the fascination and followed John.

When he caught up, they walked silently – if not entirely companionably – down the strip of land between the rape fields and the cliff's edge above the sea.

"I'm checking out of the Inn." John said. "I'm going to stay with Stan and Peg."

Sherlock digested the information. He wanted to ask why. He wanted to know if John was moving to get away from him. Then Sherlock remembered that John WAS moving away. John was going to move in with Shane.

Suddenly Sherlock felt short of breath, as if he'd been kicked in the solar plexus. He struggled to hide his distress from John.

In vain. John was staring at him. "Sherlock, are you all right?" He asked, concerned.

"Of course." Sherlock managed.

"No more lying." John said. "No more pretending. Just tell me what's wrong."

"It hurts, losing you. It's unbearable."

John stopped walking. "I know." He said. "For me too."

"The flat – our flat. I can't stay there now." Sherlock said. "Whether or not you stay, I can't."

"Where will you go?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I have rooms in an artists' colony in West London." He said. "I was living there before I moved back into Baker Street."

John nodded. "So this is it?" He asked. "After this case, I won't see you anymore?"

"If that's what you want."

"Of course it's not what I WANT." John closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't seem to control myself anymore." He hugged himself with despair.

"I understand... you've been through so much."

Yeah, but when does that stop being an excuse?"

"I wish I knew how to help you."

"If wishes were horses..."

John sighed and started walking again. Sherlock hurried to catch up. They walked until the strip of land ended in a sheer cliff. John stood on the farthest point looking out over the water, letting the wind whip cowlicks into his hair, tug his shirt this way and that.

Sherlock felt impossibly sad.

Eventually John turned back and they started walking back towards the rape fields. Sherlock wanted to take John's hand and hold it, reassure him somehow. Let him know he was loved.

But Sherlock was walking to John's left, on his hook side. It was so easy to forget about the loss – and devastating to remember. Sherlock could only imagine how much worse it was for John.

It was late afternoon when they got back to the farm. The apiary was still buzzing loudly, the aroma of honey was thick in the air.

"Let's harvest the honey." Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Let's harvest the honey. All the equipment is in the barn."

"Wouldn't we get stung?"

"There's protective gear."

"Yeah, of course. Do you think we could do it?" John sounded excited. "We should ask Stan."

"If you like."

"Do you think we could do it?"

"Oh yes."

Sherlock led them to the barn. "Here are the replacement combs." He said. "Jars." He hefted one of the large earthenware crocks. "A good knife to trim the comb, and protective kit."

"We can't faff this up. You really know how to do this?"

"Yes. The hard part is draining the honey. We'll have to lift the frame out and carry it to that cradle. The jug goes under here and then we open the frame. Once it's drained, we trim the comb – this, this is the container for the trimmed honeycomb, it'll go through a press later. Then insert the replacement, close the frame and return it to the hive."

Sherlock showed John how to don the large overalls with the attached boots, then the gloves – only one for John – and the smock. He found a gum band and wrapped it around the end of John's prosthesis, closing the cuff tightly so no bees could fly up his sleeve. John didn't even seem impatient or resentful that Sherlock did it for him.

Then they put on the broad-brimmed hats, pulling down the net veils, and started carrying the equipment out to the apiary.

"The bees will land on you – it feels strange at first, but if you remain calm they shouldn't become aggressive."

"Right." John said, setting down the crocks he'd carried near the cradle. They went back for the replacement comb, the knife and the container for the trimmed honeycomb.

As they organized the equipment, Sherlock felt bees landing on his smock and on his veil. He turned to look at John – John was standing stock still, large clumps of bees covering his torso.

"They can't get at you." Sherlock reassured him. "Just keep your movements slow and steady."

They turned in unison towards the hive . Sherlock unlatched the hatch and grasped the first frame. John helped him pull it out and they carried it together to the cradle – it was heavier than he'd expected. John positioned the earthenware jar below the frame and Sherlock flipped open the hatch. Honey began to pour into the jar. 

They watched it drain. Sherlock felt the bees crawling over him, watched bees alight and crawl on John. John was twisting his left arm the way that opened his pincers. Open, shut, open, shut, the metal shone in the late afternoon light, a cloud of bees floating around it.

Sherlock looked closer and saw that John was grinning under the veil, a pure and carefree grin of happiness. He had almost forgotten that John could look this happy. It suited him. 

Sherlock ached inside for John... the John he'd lost when he jumped off that roof. He hadn't known how MUCH they both would lose.

When the frame finished draining, Sherlock opened it. He handed John the knife. 

"Cut right about here." He said, indicating a spot about ten centimeters from the top. You can see how it's been cut away before."

Sherlock readied the box for the honey comb. 

They didn't make the neatest job of it. Some of the comb fell and the bees swarmed around it. It was dirty, but Sherlock rescued it anyway, sticking his hand into the pool of bees. 

Sherlock placed the new comb in the frame and closed it, flipping the little draining hatch shut, and he and John carried the frame back to the hive.

They repeated this process with the other frames, harvesting the honey, sealing up the jars, stacking them, collecting honeycomb in the big plexi box. The entire time, John was happy.

When they finally finished, the sun was low over the ocean.

A noise startled Sherlock – he realized John was laughing.

"What?" He asked.

"We're never getting out of this kit." John giggled. "We'll never get the bees off."

He had a point. They were both wearing heavy shirts made of bees. When they moved, the bees moved with them. Sherlock had identified several parties of aggressive guard bees trying to defend the hive. They would follow and attack as soon as they removed the protective gear.

Sherlock felt himself giving in to the ridiculousness of their predicament. "I hadn't considered that." Sherlock admitted. 

"What are we going to do?" John asked.

"I have no idea."

They looked at each other and laughed together. It felt amazing – and strange, Sherlock was so unaccustomed to the feeling. It bubbled out unrestrained.

Then John touched his arm with his gloved fingers, disturbing a small knot of bees. John pointed towards the ocean. Sherlock turned and saw Stan MacFarland waving at them. He'd built a fire near the cliff's edge and was holding a bellows. 

"Brilliant!" Sherlock said. "The smoke will make them docile – sleepy." He started towards the fire, the guard bees flying angrily around him. Stan set down the bellows and moved off warily as John and Sherlock approached.

They took turns with the bellows, blowing the smoke from the fire – a smokey peat fire – towards each other, then using a soft brush Stan had left them to carefully flick the remaining bees off their bodies. It took a while, but the bees slowly calmed and drifted off or fell to the ground where they sleepily got their bearings. 

Eventually Stan walked up to the fire and Sherlock threw back his veil, grinning.

John removed his broad-brimmed hat. Sherlock saw he was pink and sweaty with exertion – he felt a thrill of lust that he damped down hard. 

"I hope you don't mind, Stan." John said. "Sherlock had harvested honey before..."

Stan patted John on the back, looking between the two men. "No, I appreciate it. Not sure what I would have done if they swarmed." 

"We haven't neglected the case." Sherlock assured him. "I have the police working on several lines of inquiry... I should get back and check on them." He concluded, pulling off the smock. 

Stan took Sherlock's gear. "I usually have the fire a lot closer, calm them nearer the hive. Give me your kit and I'll take the jars in."

"I'll help you." John said.

Stan nodded at John. "Good. Stop by the house." He told Sherlock. "Peg has sandwiches. And I finished that list you brought."

"Brilliant." Sherlock said. He carefully removed the overalls and handed them over to Stan.

"I'll walk part of the way with you." John told Sherlock.

When they were alone on the path, John stopped. "Thank you." He said. "For this. For today."

"Thank you." Sherlock said and he meant it from the core of his being. 

John impulsively stepped forward, touching Sherlock's cheek. He reached up, standing on his toes, and buzzed Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock leaned down into the kiss. It was brief, but it was heartfelt. 

"Ok." Sherlock said when John stepped back. "Ok."

"I'm going to go." John said, suddenly embarrassed. "And help Stan clean our mess."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll text if I find out anything."

"Oh! That reminds me – in the police file: during the search the night Davey disappeared, a constable found a sandwich wrapper in the gorse. They got fingerprints from it. It could be nothing – but it could help confirm who was here if we can match the prints."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. That's good, John." He lingered a moment longer. "Will I see you later?"

"Text when you have something – or need something. I'll be here." With that, John turned and walked back up the path towards the apiary.

Sherlock watched him walk away into the dusk. He could still taste John's kiss. "If wishes were horses beggars would ride." He murmured. "THIS beggar would anyway."

 

\---

 

Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open – he took another swig of his cold, burnt-tasting coffee. 

Inspector Martin had gone home at 22:38, wearily instructing the young DC she had assigned to assist Sherlock to ring her if there was a breakthrough.

"But if you give me a bell it better be the bleedin' second coming!" She warned the boy. "Don't look so lurgy, Baker, it's only your job on the line."

Baker took on the coast road camera. He was running the footage at 4X speed, slowing down when vehicles appeared. He made notes of all the license plates and the time they appeared on the video.

Sherlock continued to focus on video of the fête, specifically of the Tombola. He had three views now, none centered on the raffle drawing, but it was visible in all. Sherlock was currently studying the one with the best view.

He watched it over and over, his tired eyes following one person then the next then the next, working his way through the crowd… until he saw what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next - a rescue is attempted!


	6. Victoriana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a breakthrough.

There was a buzzing intensity at the district police station when Sherlock returned the next morning. He felt stroppy – he’d slept little and then dreamed of John... John was beautiful in the midday sun, Sherlock loved him so much, but he was always just out of reach...

Sherlock made his way, unannounced, to Inspector Martin – she had just finished briefing her team and assigning tasks when she caught sight of Sherlock.

“Looks like you were spot-on, Mr. Holmes – we DIDN'T quite know where to look.” She admitted. “Your list of the license plates of camper cars on Angus Stuart’s land yielded a hit on the sicko database.”

Martin opened a file folder on her desk and handed Sherlock a photo – a mug shot – of a pale, washed-out looking man with thinning blond hair.

“Daniel Bruce Rogers, 52.” She said, tapping the photo. “Ugly yob. One conviction and lots of form. He camped on Stuart’s field for one night, June 20. He came up in our original search – he’s all the way over by Dundee so we asked the local coppers to pay a visit. He claimed to have been home all week. Said he was at work on June 20 and his boss backed him up.

“But now, we find a camper car registered in his name in Angus Stuart’s field the same night Davey MacFarland goes missing! And we have a traffic photo of him driving the thing in Drumnadrochit, the other side of Inverness, on June 19. We’re tracking him down now – and we’re going ourselves. Not gonna let those mugs in Dundee cock this up again!” 

Sherlock frowned at the photo. “He wasn’t at the fête.” He said.

“You don’t know that. And so what if he wasn’t – he could have seen Davey somewhere else.”

Sherlock had picked up the file. “This isn’t right: Rogers has only ever targeted pubescent girls.” He pointed. “Eleven and twelve year-olds. That’s a long way from a five year-old boy.”

“A pedophile is a pedophile.” She said.

“He wasn’t at the fête.” Sherlock insisted stubbornly. “I’ve been over the footage with a fine-tooth comb. And he didn’t buy a ticket in the Tombola. The Tombola is the key! The person that took Davey saw him at the fête and fixated on him at the Tombola. It’s on the video – I can show you!”

Inspector Martin sighed. “Ok.” She agreed tightly. “Show me.”

Sherlock took her to the computer he’d been using the night before. It woke at his touch. “This is from the CCTV camera on the gazebo in the village green.”

“The drugs squad loves that one.” Martin observed. “You wouldn’t believe how many kids decide to get high in that gazebo.”

Sherlock started it playing. “The Tombola is here – you can see Davey MacFarland being lifted onstage by his mother. He’s up there with the Vicar – that’s his back. Look at the crowd – her, right there.” Sherlock singled out a large-boned, white woman with long brown hair near the front of the audience. “She doesn’t move from her spot–” Sherlock fast forwarded the footage. “–see? She’s rapt...”

“They’re ALL goggling at him! Look at that one, she’s practically on the stage!”

“No, no! She made the pie that’s one of the prizes – that’s all she cares about! I followed everyone in this crowd – it’s her!” He pointed at the brown-haired woman again. “She doesn’t move or look away until Davey leaves the stage. Look, her head turns to follow him. Now on this camera–” Sherlock closed the window with the Gazebo video and opened another. “–from the bank, there’s the same woman – brown hair, green blouse. You can see the MacFarlands sitting down and Davey with some other children. This woman stays right there by the jumble sale until –” Sherlock fast forwarded again. “–Davey is taken off camera by his parents. Exacly 41 seconds later–” Sherlock skipped ahead. “This woman walks in the same direction. It’s her.”

Inspector Martin was frowning. “This doesn’t prove anything – it’s probably coincidence.” She pointed at the screen. “That woman sat right next to where the boys were playing the whole time too.”

“No, no – she’s the mother of the three other boys. She’s just happy to have a minute to sit still! It’s the brown-haired woman. It has to be.”

“Look, Mr. Holmes, you helped us blow the alibi of a convicted sex offender who had means and opportunity. It’s him! Now I have to go bring him in.” She leaned forward and turned off the computer. “Can I walk you to the door?” She asked. “I’m heading that way.” It wasn’t a question.

“Why are there so many idiots!?” Sherlock asked himself as he stalked out of the building.

***the police are idiots!*** he texted John furiously. ***don’t let MacF get their hopes up***

Sherlock was so intent on texting, he almost walked right into John. 

“John!” John’s sudden appearance caught Sherlock completely off-guard. His adrenaline-fueled blood boiled with shocked desire.

John’s phone was buzzing, he pulled it out of his pocket and read the texts from Sherlock – Sherlock was grateful to have a moment to gather himself. “What’s going on?” John demanded.

“The police are after the wrong person! Idiots! They’re wasting time!” Sherlock thought guiltily of the stolen afternoon yesterday – but John didn’t say anything. “You aren’t going to ask how I know?”

John smiled. “No. I trust you.” 

Sherlock smiled back and for a moment he felt suspended. The familiar longing tugged at his heart. He opened his mouth to say something foolish, something he knew he’d regret.

Morag MacNeil, the Vicar’s wife, interrupted.

“Sherlock!” She cried. “I think I have something!”

“Tell me!” Sherlock said, relieved at the distraction.

“Should we find somewhere to speak privately?” John asked, glancing at the clot of police watching them from the doorway.

“The vicarage is just down the lane.” Morag volunteered.

“Brilliant.” John replied before Sherlock could object. “Lead the way.

“Now, Morag.” Sherlock said when they were settled in her parlour and had refused her offer of tea. “TELL ME what you’ve discovered.”

Morag looked at John and he nodded encouragement.

“I’ve been visiting all the singles – and couples without children – who bought tickets for the Tombola – as you asked, Sherlock.” She said.

“Yes?” Sherlock prompted impatiently. John tutted at him to calm down.

“Sarah Beetle is on the list. Well, I don’t know Sarah Beetle, she’s not a member of the congregation, but I noticed that the address she wrote on her ticket was just two doors down from Jilly Fellows, who IS a member.”

“Sarah Beetle?” Sherlock recalled that she was a local on the ‘unpartnered’ list.

“I went to Jilly and I asked her if she knew Sarah. Well, not very well, she said. Just to say hello. I asked if she’d noticed anything different about her lately – and Jilly said now that I’d mentioned it, Sarah HAD been a bit strange.”

“Strange how?!”

“Usually she’s out in her garden every day – it’s a beautiful garden, very Victorian – bachelor’s buttons and cone flowers, you know. She’s quite proud of it. Well, Jilly hadn’t seen her working in the garden for a few days. So when she ran into her at the grocery store, she asked if Sarah had been sick. Sarah seemed startled, she said, but said yes, she’d been ill. Then THAT NIGHT, Jilly hears a car. She looks out the window and it’s Sarah, pulling out of her driveway. Said she hasn’t been back since!”

“This is it! It has to be.” Sherlock crowed.

“Sherlock, she could BE sick.” John cautioned. “We should get the police to knock her up.”

“What does Sarah Beetle look like?” Sherlock asked Morag intently. “Did Jilly say?” 

“Oh I’ve seen her around.” Morag said. “She’s a tall girl, not fat, but... big, you know? She’s rather plain, but I think that’s more because she doesn’t do herself up – she could be quite attractive.”

“Her hair.” Sherlock said. “What color is it? How does she wear her hair?”

“Oh, very simple – just long and brown. A bit lank, if you ask me. Some highlights would go a long way.”

“It’s her! John, I saw her on the CCTV, stalking the boy. Morag! You’re WONDERFUL!” Sherlock picked her up in a big bear hug. “You’re a veritable Miss. Marple!”

“I’m a FEW years younger, dear.” She said blushing.

Sherlock kissed her cheek and set her down.

“I’ll call Inspector Martin...” John began.

“Idiots, John. The police are idiots. And they’d never get a search warrant on gossip and a Tombola ticket. You and I, however, don’t need a search warrant.”

John didn’t hesitate. “Right. A little B and E before lunch. Let’s go!”

 

\---

 

Sarah Beetle’s home was a small stone structure painted yellow. The front door was centered precisely and two dormers were set symmetrically in the sloping roof, as if the house had opened its heavy-lidded eyes and yawned.

Her garden was as far from the symmetry of the house as possible with a curving stone path leading through riotous patches of flowers and shrubs.

John went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. 

Sherlock entered the garden from the back, around a wood frame garage much newer than the house. It was also yellow, but it’s lacy gingerbread had been painted hot pink in the Victorian style – it seemed at home in the garden that rambled around it. In fact, it looked like a miniature Victorian cottage.

As Sherlock peered through a window, shading his eyes, trying to see what might lurk in the darkness beyond the ivory lace curtain, he heard John knock again.

John had insisted on knocking – Sarah Beetle might be home with a perfectly innocent explanation, he argued. Sherlock, however , didn’t want that much attention from Jilly Fellows and Sarah’s other neighbors. The back was shielded from all but the closest.

He heard John walk back down the path and out onto the street. He would circle around and surreptitiously join Sherlock in the shaded garden.

Sherlock studied the back of the house. A patio had been installed off the rear door, next to a small kitchen garden. Unlike the front, there were two windows on the first floor (placed symmetrically, under the dormers, on either side of the central door). Between the patio and kitchen garden, obscured by large lettuces and a flagrantly bushy basil, lay the door to a root cellar.

He tried the doorknob on the back door. It was locked. Sherlock then tested each window. The lock on the one over the kitchen garden was broken. He slid it open and propped it with a wooden dowel he found on the sill – for just such a job.

John appeared beside him. Sherlock could feel the heat of his body, smell the soap and salt on his skin, as he leaned against his shoulder to peer into the opened window – a hot thrill of lust shot straight to his groin, it made his cock swell and his face flush.. Climbing through the window was going to be uncomfortable and embarrassing. 

“Er, you go first.” He told John.

John smirked in a way that made Sherlock blush – though he was relatively certain John was not aware of his arousal.

Watching John’s backside as he climbed into the house didn’t help matters. “Get a hold of yourself!” He commanded silently. 

“Are you coming in?” John whispered from the window. 

“Yes, right now.” Sherlock hissed. “Check the front.” John nodded and strode away. Sherlock painstakingly crawled through, reminding himself, sadly, that these were the last days, possibly the last hours, he would ever spend with John. By the time John returned, he was decent.

“No one.” John said sotto voce. “There’s a laptop in the other room – do you want to take a look while I check upstairs? Maybe we can work out where she went.”

“I’m not convinced she left at all.” Sherlock whispered. “There’s a car in the garage.”

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You think she’s here?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe. Check upstairs, I’ll look around for the cellar.” 

John made his way to the stairs and started up, wincing as one emitted a loud creak.

Sherlock searched the kitchen – it had last been updated in the 1970s, the harvest gold appliances incongruous next to the round Victorian table with its lace cloth – and the front room (made up in green velvet and baize like a Victorian parlour). He rolled back the carpets and probed for telltale irregularities in the plank floor until John creaked back down the stairs, shaking his head to indicate it was empty.

“It’s ‘land of the creepy dolls’ up there.” John said. He looked around. “Someone’s been here recently. The plants have been watered.” He opened the harvest gold fridge. “And the milk doesn’t expire until next week. It’s Wednesday – she could be at work. Just because Jilly Fellows hasn’t seen her...”

“Let’s finish checking the property.” Sherlock said. “There’s a door to the cellar outside.” He was already easing himself out the window. John joined him by the back door. 

“Padlock.” John observed. “I brought something for that.” To Sherlock’s surprise, he pulled a pry-bar from the waistband of his pants.

“I thought you were just happy to see me.” Sherlock mumbled as John applied the pry-bar to the padlock. The padlock wasn’t budging, but the handle it was attached to came out of the frame easily. Sherlock pulled open the door.

They descended the stairs into the dark. John found a pull chain and turned on the single bulb. The cellar was small and dank with an earth floor and shelves holding jars of home-canned fruit and veg. John turned in a circle, scanning the entire room. “Nothing down here.” He said.

“No.” Sherlock agreed, the bitterness of his disappointment surprised him. He mounted the stairs and surveyed the back garden with a sour expression as John closed up the cellar and righted the broken handle with its dangling padlock.

“If she’s innocent, I’ll have to fix that.” John remarked. “What next? Talk to the neighbors ourselves? Or I can stake out the house while you check her work...and her family...”

“That garage...” Sherlock said, staring fixedly at the structure. “Is new.”

John squinted at it, moved closer. “You’re right. Look at these locks... and the foundation. It has electric.” He pointed out the wires attached to the roof.

“Let’s see what’s in there.” Sherlock said, fishing in his pocket for his lock picks. He made short work of the deadbolt and they let themselves into the miniature Victorian. It was smaller inside than he’d expected, some architectural trick – or maybe the climbing vines – exaggerated the building’s lines. 

He examined the interior. There was a cement slab with an old Saab sedan to one side. The other side had a window overlooking the garden. The wall was papered in gold and green flocking and there were oval picture frames holding antique portraits of children and dogs. There was a round oak table by the window, a blue willow tea set on its ivory lace doily next to a half-burned candlestick and a blue willow jug full of cut flowers in full bloom. An upholstered chair faced the window – it all sat on a Chinese rug. It looked very cozy – if a museum display could be called cozy.

John whistled. “This cost her dear.” He said. “She shoulda put the money into updating that kitchen – and the bathroom! I don’t think it’s seen an upgrade since 1890.”

Sherlock was examining the table. “Crumbs.” He said, not touching them. He and John exchanged significant looks.

There was a utility sink opposite the window, a big tin tub and several smaller vessels rested underneath, a towel was laid across. Sherlock fingered it. “Dry.” He said. There was a hose coiled to one side of the sink and a cabinet to the other. John opened the cabinet and found boxes of tea and biscuits.

The back of the building was dominated by stairs leading up to a loft. Sherlock started up and John followed. The space was small – the sloping ceilings cut usable space to half the size of the room below. It was well lit by a round window at the far end. A child-sized Jenny Lind bed sat in the center of the room on another expensive looking Chinese rug. A narrow chest with three drawers sat next to the window, a child-sized rocking chair and and a toy box were pushed back under the sloping ceiling – all were authentic and well-maintained antiques. A life sized porcelain doll in a christening gown sat leaning against the wall.

“Christ! That doll is creepy.” John exclaimed. “Her bedroom in the house is full of the things.”

“Seems quite the preoccupation.” Sherlock said and they again exchanged a troubled look. 

John lifted the lid of the toy box carefully. “More bedding.” He observed.

“Look at the bed, John!” Sherlock gestured at the bedclothes. “Someone has been in this bed – someone larger than that doll.” He said.

“It HAS to be Davey. Where is he?”

“I knew it was her! I knew I was right!”

“You can gloat AFTER we find the boy!” John said. He huffed his disapproval and walked down the stairs.

“John...” Sherlock trailed John back to the ground floor. 

“Where is he?” John demanded again.

Sherlock looked all around, sizing up the room, looking for anything he had missed. He opened the door under the stairs. “Closet.” He said, pushing the hanging coats back and palming the back of the narrow space. Sherlock circled the room restlessly, then lay down on his belly and looked underneath the old Saab. He sat up with a frown. He moved the chair and rolled back the rug... “Nothing!”

“They aren’t here.” John said, frustrated. He flung the door open and stomped into the garden. “We should look at her laptop and her papers – maybe we can find a clue to where she’s taken him.”

Sherlock had followed him outdoors. “Yes.” He sighed. He was as disappointed as John. They were so close!

John returned to the open window and peered into the kitchen. “Fuck.” He muttered. “Are you coming?” He asked Sherlock.

Sherlock was squinting at the garage, his hands in front of his face.

“What?” John asked.

“It’s too long.”

“Huh?”

“It’s too long. The garage is bigger outside than it is inside.”

“We missed something.” They raced each other back into the garage. Sherlock walked directly to the closet and started pulling the coats out and throwing them on the floor. Next came rubber boots and then several folded towels, a box of old china topped by a broken doll and then cartons of tinned meat and canned veg.

When the closet was empty, Sherlock started a close investigation of the floor and then the walls. He gestured to John to come close and silently pointed out a hidden latch in the corner.

John indicated that he should go first. Sherlock stepped back but readied himself. 

John flipped the latch and pulled – the wall opened!

Suddenly there was a blood-curdling scream and Sherlock saw a long blade stab through John!

“Urg” John grunted and the sword withdrew.

“JOHN!” Sherlock cried, rushing forward to catch him, mentally mapping the route to the closest hospital.

“Get back!” John said once again dodging the blade, shoving Sherlock behind him and deflecting the attack with his prosthetic.

“You aren’t hurt?” Sherlock had seen the blade protruding a foot out of John’s back. 

“I’m fine. Give me some room.”

The blade had been clean of blood... it must have been an optical illusion.

Sherlock's heart rate was still racing when another screaming attack was mounted from within – John dodged the blade with lightning quickness, catching it in his metal pincers and twisting.

“No!” The woman screamed. “Give it back!” She yanked the blade out of John's pincers and Sherlock saw it was an antique cutlass.

“Get out!” She wailed. “I’ll kill you!”

“If you kill us.” Sherlock said dispassionately. “Our bodies will block your door. You’ll be trapped back there.”

“GET OUT!” 

John took another step forward and he was attacked again. This time the blade deflected off the prosthetic covering his forearm – and he punched the woman with his right fist, catching her on the ear. She yelped, stunned, and John grabbed her by the hair. He pulled her head tight against the door and intercepted the cutlass once again with his hook. “Drop it!” He said in his command voice. 

She flailed and struggled, but she couldn’t get loose. She started hacking wildly with the sword, stabbing and chopping, trying to wound John. 

Calmly, John blocked her blows with his prosthetic and swung her around, twisting her neck and lodging his forearm under her chin so she was pinned against his chest. He sank his hook into her sword hand and she howled as she dropped the blade. The second it hit the floor, he stepped on it.

She continued to rage and fight, twisting in John’s grasp. He pinned her against the wall easily. “Sherlock?” John said. “A little help?”

“You seem to have her well in hand.” Sherlock said, admiring the flexing of the muscles on John's shoulders and thighs.

“Get over here!” The seriousness of his voice pulled Sherlock to his side instantly. 

“Did she get you? Have you been stabbed?” He demanded, panic once again clawing at his brain.

“I’m fine!” John assured him impatiently. “I need you to take her.”

Sarah Beetle was taller than John and her wild flailing made her dangerous. But John pulled her out of the hidden cubby into the closet easily and handed her over to Sherlock. “Get her out of here and call the police. I can see Davey back there.”

“NO!” Sarah shrieked. “He’s MINE! Don’t touch him, he’s MINE!” 

Sherlock caught sight of the little figure at the rear of the cubby – a beautiful, porcelain doll of a boy in a little Victorian suit cringing against the wall. 

John knelt in the door frame. “Davey? My name’s John. I’m a friend of your parents. They miss you so much. Can I take you to them?”

Sherlock left John to calm the little boy. He bullied the woman out of the closet as she worked herself into a frenzy, screeching and clawing. At the closet door, Sherlock stumbled over the rubber boots and she jerked out of his grip and ran. Sherlock caught her again before she could get the outside door open. 

Her car key hung from a hook by the door.

Sherlock attempted to twist her arm behind her back, incapacitate her as he’d seen John do so many times – but it wasn’t nearly as easy as John made it look and once again she jerked out of his grip. He grabbed her around the middle and hauled her kicking and flailing to the Saab. He got the key jammed in the trunk on the second try and twisted it while he squeezed her middle tight against himself. He dropped her into the trunk and forced her flailing arms and legs inside. He tried to close it carefully so as not to get a hand or foot caught – mostly because that might give her an opportunity to escape. 

When it was closed, he leaned against it wearily, surprised to see blood dripping on his shirt. He touched his cheek and winced – she’d scratched him. She screamed and banged from inside the trunk ceaselessly.

John emerged from the closet, Davey in his arms. “Call the police!” He ordered Sherlock again. He sat in the upholstered chair with the boy in his lap. Sherlock noticed that he was taking the child’s pulse as he talked to the boy softly.

As Sherlock dialed 999, he watched John fish his phone from his pocket and dial. 

“I have him, I have Davey.” John said into the phone, his voice warm and animated. “He’s fine, I think he’s fine – do you want to talk to him?... Davey, your mum and dad are on the phone.” He put the phone on speaker. 

“Davey?!” Peg’s voice quavered from the phone.

“Mummy!” The boy cried. “Mummy!”

“It’s him! Oh Davey!”

John put the phone to his mouth again. “I’m going to take him to hospital to have him checked out.... no, just in case....meet me there, I’m taking him there directly... ok.... ok... he looks great, Peg!.... see you soon.”

“Go.” Sherlock urged. “I’ll wait here for Inspector Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: John chooses.


	7. John's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally realizes what he has to do.

The Great Northern pulled into St. Pancras. John sighed and picked up his duffel. One week ago he had boarded this train to Inverness with Sherlock and the mother of a missing boy... today he returned to London alone.

Sherlock had boarded a train several days earlier, claiming he was impatient to get back to ‘his’ city and his cases. John had barely seen him after he carried little Davey MacFarland out of that crazy garage – just once the next day, a goodbye that they both needed to be brief.

The honey harvest was really their goodbye – and rescuing little Davey together. That had been the way it used to be between them, each doing their part, working together seamlessly, men who could truly depend on one another – the way it should be. John hoped that if Sherlock ever thought about him, he'd remember John like that.

John had stayed on with Stan, Peg and Davey. There was something about the wild, windswept coast that appealed to him. It felt clean.

John hadn’t felt clean in a long, long time. 

He didn’t feel clean now. He felt burdened. 

 

\---

 

Shane had suggested meeting at a restaurant, but John countered that Shane’s apartment might be better. Shane said he liked the sound of that. John arrived a few minutes early, feeling nervous.

It felt like he’d been away more than a week – so much had changed. But Shane was the same – tall and thin and vital, his floppy hair in his eyes, his clothes in need of ironing. He wrapped his arms around John and it felt GOOD, the much-needed comfort soothing his nerves.

“I missed you.” Shane murmured. 

“I missed this.” John said, squeezing Shane more tightly. They kissed – a long kiss that gained intensity. Shane ground his pelvis against John’s thigh.

“Maybe we should forget dinner...” Shane kissed John’s jaw and his neck. “... go straight to bed.”

“Mmmm...” John sighed. “We should talk first.”

“Oh...?”

John kissed him again, savouring the sensations.

“So the kid is fine?” Shane asked, a few minutes later. They were sitting on Shane’s big comfortable couch, drinking beer. “You rescued him.”

“Physically he’s fine. He’s sticking pretty close to mum and dad right now – and they to him. They’ve started family therapy together, hoping to nip any long-term issues in the bud.”

“Smart. And the kidnapper?”

“Oh, totally bat-shit. She wanted him for her collection of porcelain dolls. He was SO frightened when I found him – and she was screaming bloody murder in the next room... I don’t know how I got him to trust me.”

“I do. You’re trustworthy. People instinctively trust you.”

“They shouldn’t.” John said seriously.

Shane laid his hand on top of John’s. “You said we needed to talk.” 

“Yeah...” John’s throat had developed a lump that made it hard to speak. “I’m not going to move in here with you.” He said. “I’m going back to Scotland for a while.”

Shane was quiet for a moment, the smile in his eyes fading to hurt. “How do you expect me to respond to that?” He asked.

“I expect you’ll be upset. And I’m sorry.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“Yeah.”

Shane stood up abruptly and paced across the room. “It’s for HIM, isn’t it?! You’re with Sherlock!”

“No. I’m not. He came back to London earlier in the week and cleared out of our flat. I won’t see him again.” John felt a pang for Sherlock and shoved it aside.

“You’re cutting it off with both of us?!” Shane sounded confused, disbelieving.

“Yes.”

“WHY, John? Why?” 

“Because I can’t...” John’s voice broke and he fought back tears. “I’ve been hiding things from you for... for months, I guess. The depression has been getting worse. There are days at a time that I can’t get out of bed. And when I can, I’m angry. I’m out of control. You say I’m trustworthy? I’m not! I’m a fucking mess. When Sherlock told me there was a missing child, my first feeling was resentment – that I would have to get up and function like a human being... 

“When I was with you, I tried to hide it – you knew I wasn’t 100 percent, but you had no idea... I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lied to you. I shouldn’t have pretended ... I just didn’t want to BE that person.” John discovered that he was standing. Shane was across the room, keeping a distance between them. “Shane... I’m not doing this lightly. I tried to think of some other way...”

“Way to what?” Shane’s voice was softer now, almost pleading. “We can deal with your depression together, John. You don’t HAVE to hide it from me. We’re a couple, couples work things out together.”

“I...can’t. I can’t even take responsibility for myself... I can’t have someone else’s needs and expectations...”

“It wouldn’t be like that!”

“It WOULD. Shane, I love you. I WANT to be present for you, I want to take care of you... it kills me that I can’t... I can’t face another failure...”

“You love me...” Now there were tears on Shane’s face too. 

“Yes.”

“Then don’t do this.”

John sagged. “I’m sorry.” He said. Strong arms encircled him – Shane had closed the distance between them and now he supported John. 

“Let me be here for you.” Shane whispered. “I can take it.”

John hid his face in Shane’s shoulder. “I can’t. I can’t take it. I wish I could... I’ve really tried...”

They stood together, holding each other so tightly, for a long time. 

“I hate this.” Shane whispered.

“Me too.”

“I want to beg and plead... I won’t. I won’t do that to you. It just feels so wrong, losing you.”

“Yes.”

“When are you going back to Scotland.”

“Right away. Tomorrow.”

“Oh, John!” John felt him shaking, deep shudders that moved Shane’s whole body. 

John held him tighter. “Shhh.” He soothed, petting his hair.

He turned his face upwards, trying to see Shane clearly. Shane’s face was wet and ugly with blotches. John desperately wanted to tell him that he’d changed his mind, that they could be together. But he couldn’t.

Shane dipped down and kissed John very lightly, their tears mingling. It felt so familiar... John kissed him back, his tongue brushing Shane’s... Shane’s hands gripped him more tightly and their kiss became urgent.

“One more time.” Shane whispered. “ Give me that.”

John nodded and kissed Shane again, kissed his neck and collarbone, tongued his jaw and stood on his toes to breath in his ear. He cupped Shane’s bum with his hand and moved his hip against him. He knew how to make love to Shane, he knew what he liked.

Shane was hurriedly unbuttoning John’s shirt, tugging it out of his waistband. John had trouble keeping up one handed, but he managed to release Shane’s flies and reach in to palm the hard length he found there.

“Bedroom!” Shane said, and they hurried hand-in hand.

There, Shane quickly shed his trousers. He pushed John onto his bed and undressed him, not allowing John to help. John settled for touching Shane’s face, pulling him into a kiss, using the intensity of their passion to distract them from sorrow.

John took a moment to shed his prosthetic – the cuts in the plastic making him smile remembering how he’d used it to block the cutlass. Maybe he could accept it someday...

Undressed, Shane climbed onto the bed. They lay skin to skin, kissing and fondling one another, their legs entangled, until John rolled on top of Shane and pushed him down into the bed. He rubbed his cock against Shane’s and smiled as Shane moaned and writhed beneath him.

John bent to take Shane’s prick into his mouth, tonguing the head and licking down the shaft to kiss his bollocks. His tongue found Shane’s perineum, then slid back up to the glans. He took as much of Shane's cock as he could into his mouth and bobbed. Then he kissed Shane’s belly and smiled. 

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at that.” John said. 

“You really are shit.” Shane laughed and pulled him up into a kiss. “You’re MUCH better at other things.”

“Grab the lube then.”

Shane reached over to the drawer beside the bed and fished out a condom and a bottle of lubricant. He offered the lube and John held out his hand. Shane squeezed some out. John reached down to massage Shane's hole, to penetrate and finger fuck it. Shane opened quickly under John's touch and soon he was demanding more.

"Give me the condom." John said.

"Here, let me." Shane ripped open the condom wrapper with his teeth and expertly rolled it onto John's big cock.

"What am I going to do with all these Magnums now?" He complained.

John appreciated that Shane was able to speak lightly. It helped John keep his own sorrow at bay. "They'll be lining up to help you use 'em." John said, smiling. He dripped a generous amount of lubricant onto himself.

"After you've ruined me for all other cocks? Uhn!" John had pushed the fat head of his prick in. He stroked Shane's cock as he waited for Shane to adjust.

When Shane nodded, John pushed in farther. He waited again before burying himself to the hilt. When Shane was ready, John started to move. "Do you like that?" He asked, pushing in and out smoothly. 

"Mmmm...yeah..." Shane breathed. He was hard under John's hand.

John leaned down and kissed Shane, smelling his aftershave. A wave of sadness crashed over him and John was momentarily overcome. He hid his face in Shane's neck, nipping under his jaw.

Shane had fully acclimated, John could tell – his jaw had relaxed and he was starting to rock against John. John thrust into Shane, snapping his hips.

"Fuck! Yes!... god..."

Shane was different than Sherlock, he liked different things, but both wanted a strong hand in bed. John thrust again then leaned closer to whisper in Shane's ear. "I fucked a little twink this morning." He said. It wasn't true, but Shane liked the fantasy. (Shane would LOVE the reality – he had hoped John's affair with Sherlock would be shared with him like this)

John thrust again. "You can smell him on me." Shane moaned.

He started fucking Shane in earnest. "He was so cock-hungry. He saw me get on the train and followed me to the head." John was thrusting faster now, talking louder. "He was a great fuck – I had him over the sink, pressed his face against the mirror..."

"What..." Shane moaned, his face pink, his cock red. "What did you use for lube?"

"I made him spit in my hand and then I fucked him raw."

"Oh god!"

"He begged for my cum."

"Was he better than me?" Shane asked.

"SO much better." John growled. 

"Ohhhh!" Shane liked that.

John was fucking him hard now – Shane jacking his cock between them. "I ruined his twink arse."

"Did you think about me?"

"Not once!"

Shane arched up, shuddering, and shot great globs of cum on his chest and face. "Oh... oh... oh..."

John pulled out and ripped off the condom. He started stroking his own cock furiously. Crying out, he blew his load on Shane, on his prick and then towards his face. Shane had his mouth open wide, trying to catch John's load. It made John's bolts of pleasure sharper. "Uhnn! Ah!"

He fell laughing onto the bed, next to Shane, their sweaty skin pressing together. John kissed him hard, tasting the cum on Shane's lips. He brushed the chestnut hair back from his eyes. "I love your face." John murmured.

Shane held him, fiercely, possessively. They kissed, slowly coming down. "Thank you." Shane whispered. 

John snuggled close, running his fingers through Shane's sweat-damp hair. It was thick and beautiful, the long waves glinting gold in the moonlight. He missed Shane already.

"You'll take care of yourself?" Shane murmured. 

"I'll do my best." John replied.

"I'm sorry about Sherlock. I know how much he means to you."

John believed him. "I can't talk about that."

"I know. But I'm sorry." Shane caressed John's chest and kissed it. Then with an effort at levity: "Seriously, what am I going to do with all these Magnums? They're much too loose for normal men."

"Double penetration?" John suggested.

"Mmm, that's a good idea – I could never have handled that with you."

"You can find someone to cuckold you for real... a big brute who shares you out to his mates."

"Silver linings." Shane said. They kissed again and again, clinging to each other. John ran his hand across Shane's ribs, down his side, liking the sight of his pale arm against Shane's olive skin.

Slowly they relaxed, laying back lazily. John felt Shane shudder slightly and start to drift off. "John...?" Shane said.

"Yes, love?"

"Don't be here when I wake up."

Sorrow knifed though John, the pain choking. "Ok." He managed.

 

\---

 

It was raining. John didn't care, he let himself get soaked as he walked the kilometers to Baker Street. 

He wanted to go back and apologize, tell Shane that they could try to work it out together. It hurt so much. 

But John had to do this. He needed to be alone now. He needed to become someone he liked again, someone he was proud of being before he could be with anyone else.

But it was lonely. He twisted his arm in the way that opened his pincers and looked at it with distaste. He let them close.

It took almost two hours to walk across London. It was quite late by the time John reached his neighborhood and it had gone cold. He shivered, drenched to the skin... but that was the least that he deserved...

He missed Sherlock, he admitted to himself. Desperately. John still couldn't quite accept that he'd never see the detective again, that they'd never work together again... that he'd never hold him again. That was only just now starting to sink in. He dreaded going back to the empty flat.

A car pulled up next to him.

"Oh, fuck no!" John said as cold fingers of worry squeezed his heart. 

The door opened. "Don't be childish." Said the supercilious voice. "Get in."

John scoffed – the LAST thing he needed now was Mycroft! But there was no sense fighting it – Mycroft would have his say one way or another.

(Please don't let Sherlock be in trouble!)

John climbed into the limousine, taking a certain satisfaction from making a wet spot in the immaculate car.

"What?" He asked, praying Mycroft wouldn't say the words 'Sherlock' and 'drugs.' "What do you want?"

"I have a proposition for you."

"No." John said. "The answer is 'no.'"

"You haven't heard what it is yet."

"It doesn't matter. No."

"Hear me out." Mycroft said. "I insist."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was Mycroft's proposition??? Next chapter coming soon!


	8. Ten Months Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is invited to visit John.

Sherlock shifted nervously, passing his overnight bag into his other hand as he waited at the check-in desk. 

“Here it is, Mr. Holmes... single room for one night?”

“That’s right.” He said offering his credit card. 

“Oh, it’s been prepaid...”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh...right.”

“Excellent. OK, you’re in eight – the stairs are right over there, your room is on the second floor to the left. Brekkie tomorrow goes from 7-9 a.m. Check-out is at 10.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock murmured, putting his wallet away. 

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned towards the familiar voice. "Morag." He said. "Hello." 

The Vicar's wife took his arm. "I HEARD you were coming to see us." She said. "I was visiting with Peg MacFarland after Easter service and she told me you'd be back to see how we all are! And I thought I'd just nip over to welcome you back. Can you come by the Vicarage for tea?"

"Uhm... unfortunately not – I have an engagement..."

"Of course! You'll be visiting with John. I see him all the time – he's not a member of the congregation, but he stops by now and again. He helped Misty Nairn with a cough over winter – she said he's brilliant. I think she might have set her cap, even though she's a bit young for him. I didn't tell her I see him with that Inspector Martin – THEY make an adorable couple. Anyway, how are YOU, Sherlock? John always pleads ignorance when I ask after you – he keeps his cards close to the vest, that one – he won't say anything about Nan Martin." She looked at him expectantly.

"I'm... well."

"You've picked a good weekend to come – the weather is supposed to be fair... well, fair for April... Look at me, nattering on when you've barely set foot in town! Go get settled! I just wanted to say hello." She gave him a little shove towards the stairs and turned to engage with the girl at the check-in desk.

As he climbed towards his room, Sherlock felt his spirits sinking – he'd been nervous enough already, Morag MacNeil's soliloquy had not helped.

Three weeks ago, Sherlock had received an email from John. 

When he caught sight of John Watson's name in his in-box, he just looked at it. His skin prickled unpleasantly and he felt short of breath.

"Don't be ridiculous!" He'd chastised himself and clicked it open.

It was short:

Sherlock, 

Thank you for giving me the time and space that I needed. I can't tell you how valuable it's been – or how difficult. I'm in a better place.

But I miss my best friend. And I've realized that as you're no longer dead, I can tell you that. I have no expectation that you feel the same, but if you do – or if you're curious or even if you want some sort of closure – come visit me. 

If this note is unwelcome, then accept my sincere apologies and delete it.

John

 

Sherlock had read the email over and over. It was too short! He couldn't suss John's motives. John missed his best friend? What did that MEAN?

He had thought that he'd consigned all his feelings for John to a vault in his memory palace, a vault that he'd locked up, walled off and was careful to avoid. But a few words in an email and the vault broke open. The aching pain was just as fresh as if they'd said goodbye yesterday. 

All Sherlock's feelings spilled out of his own personal Pandora's Box... and at the bottom there was hope.

Hope was the worst of all. Hope made you believe that all the horrible things that came before it could be avoided, could be tempered – could be cheated. Hope was a dirty liar.

Sherlock fought hope even as it grew and tangled itself through all his other emotions. He dared not hope, yet he could not help but hope...

Hope had brought Sherlock back to Rosemarkie, to the Carriage House Inn... and the very first thing he discovered is that John has a girlfriend.

Maybe he wants to marry her. Maybe John wants Sherlock at the wedding.

Sherlock sat down and put his head between his knees, trying to null his need to throw up.

Please, he thought, please don't let this be about a wedding.

His mobile vibrated. It was a text from John.

 

\---

 

John stood outside the café, hands in his pockets. 

Sherlock caught sight of him before John saw him coming. He stepped behind a lilac.... any thought Sherlock had had about being over John, about not wanting him as desperately as ever, was gone.

John looked amazing, more beautiful than he had that sunny day they'd harvested honey. He was tan, his cheeks windburned a rosy red, his eyes a clear, flashing gray that matched the Scottish sky. His ginger hair was shaggy and showed more than a little silver. Best of all John looked healthy. Gone was the thin, haunted look Sherlock had grown so accustomed to the last months they spent together.

He had gained back some of the weight he'd lost, that was evident even through his clothes – jeans and his black donkey coat over an Irish wool jumper that Sherlock immediately recognized as the one he'd worn that first night when they'd gone together to the pink lady's murder scene, staked out a serial killer from a Greek restaurant and laughed together in the front hallway of their flat... 

John had killed for him that same night. Sherlock could never decide if that is what had bonded him to John, or if it was their shared laughter that had done it.

Sherlock gathered himself and approached.

"I'm glad you decided to come." John greeted him with a small smile. 

"Of course I came." Sherlock growled and John's smile grew broad as if he were laughing at some joke only he got. He extended his gloved hand and Sherlock took it.

"Are we going to shake hands?" Sherlock asked.

"Too formal? Come here." John pulled gently and without letting go Sherlock's hand, wrapped his other arm around Sherlock in a 'bro-hug." He patted Sherlock's back as Sherlock hugged him tentatively.

"Well, that was..." Sherlock started.

"Awkward?" John supplied.

"Yes." And they laughed together briefly.

Something wasn't right. Sherlock frowned in concentration, replaying the last minute in his mind... studying John.

His hand! John had two! And he'd patted Sherlock's back with the left. John had sworn he'd never wear a cosmetic hand, a useless chunk of plastic that would keep strangers from realizing he was an amputee. But...

John flexed his left hand! It wasn't cosmetic.

"It's cold." John said. "Let's go in and get coffee." He opened the café door "This place has muffins that are right up your street."

Sherlock followed John to a booth. "Aye, John." Hailed the man behind the counter. "Coffee?"

"Two, Ben, thanks. And one of your blueberry muffins."

Ben had the coffee and the muffin in front of them straightaway.

Sherlock stirred sugar into his coffee and watched John remove his gloves, pulling one finger at a time, first his right glove, his left fingers deft, then the left, revealing a hand shaped very much like John's own but covered in smooth beige silicone. He held it out for Sherlock's inspection.

"Shane finally convinced you." Sherlock said as he pinched the tip of a finger. Maybe John wasn't marrying the woman, maybe he was still with Shane after all. Sherlock tried to be happy for John.

"No." John said. "Not Shane." John's jaw betrayed his tension, his eyes, sorrow.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, trying to be... and failing.

John shook his head, he wasn't going to talk about Shane. "I, erm, was accepted into a test group." He said. "For amputees – I met certain criteria. They embedded electrodes in my arm at the tendon heads. The prosthetic attaches to the electrodes. By stimulating the electrodes, I can control the hand."

"That's... fascinating."

"It took a long time to learn how to control it. Still working to master it."

"So the gloves, that was showing off."

John grinned. "A little, yeah." His smile faded. "It's a much more useful prosthetic, but it's still a prosthetic. There's no sensation, of course. Fine motor control is better than anything else out there, but it's still limited. That's... I'm not complaining – I'm very lucky." John grimaced wryly. "Try the muffin. You'll like it."

Sherlock almost protested that he wasn't hungry, but he realized that he was. He took a bite. "Mm! Good!"

"Yeah. It's all sugar." John chuckled.

For a minute Sherlock ate his muffin and John watched, seemingly content.

After he'd received John's email, Sherlock picked up his violin and didn't set it down for almost two days. The music was chaotic, discordant, his bow screeching across the strings...

Sherlock hadn't known that John had stayed in Scotland until more than a month after he'd gone to live in the artists' colony. Mrs Hudson called and asked when he was coming home. 

"John... John moved out?" This was Sherlock's first confirmation that John had moved in with Shane. It was a blow. Sherlock had convinced himself that John could never stand to be kept by his rich boyfriend.

"Oh yes, dear." Mrs. Hudson said. "John packed his things weeks ago. We had a nice chat ... he really wasn't looking well."

"No... he wasn't."

"I hope Scotland suits him better. Fresh air can do wonders. I was afraid he would waste away here."

"Scotland?" Sherlock asked. Had they gone on holiday to Scotland?

"Yes, dear. He said he was going to stay with that family you helped for a while."

"Oh... right." Sherlock had pondered that for a long time. 

Sherlock moved back into the Baker Street flat. He'd missed Mrs Hudson, he'd missed the familiar rooms, he'd missed Mrs Hudson cleaning the familiar rooms and stocking the fridge. He made changes, he moved John's chair upstairs, he restored the main floor bedroom to what it had been before he'd left, when it was his – hung the periodic table on the wall, moved his bed frame back in... John tended towards a soldier's utilitarianism when decorating, so it hadn't been difficult to eradicate the signs that John had lived there.

(In the back of the cupboard sat John's mug.)

It was good he was away from the artists' colony – even though the drugs den nearby had mysteriously disappeared (Mycroft!), drugs were rife within the colony itself. Only stubbornness kept him from relapse – Sherlock refused to admit he was shattered. If he weren't, if he was perfectly fine, there was no reason to use the drugs. (No reason other than he wanted them. And he WANTED them. He'd spent several white knuckled nights – only a well-timed murder had saved him.)

After two days of violin and ten hours of deep sleep, Sherlock replied to John's email:

John, when is convenient? Where do I go? -SH 

John's reply came within an hour. He'd suggested a Saturday three weeks away and said he'd reserve a room at the Carriage House Inn for Sherlock. 

Subtext: it was to be a short visit and Sherlock wasn't invited to stay with John.

 

\---

 

"So, where are you staying? With the MacFarlands?" Sherlock asked.

"I rented a little place on the ocean. More of a shack than a cottage, really. It's small. But my closest neighbors are a kilometer away, so it doesn't seem so wee when the garden stretches as far as I can see."

"Close to Rosemarkie?"

"About eighteen k."

"Mm..." Sherlock sipped his coffee. "I'm back with Mrs. Hudson..." He wondered how John would feel about that.

John's face brightened. "Good. I felt badly about... chasing you out of there. I wasn't thinking clearly then..."

"It was strange there without you. I... redecorated. A bit."

John laughed. "Let me guess – with spray paint and petrie dishes?"

Sherlock shrugged, smiling. "You know me too well." Somehow that was the wrong thing to say. The moment became awkward. "Erm... are you working? Seeing patients?"

"No. I can live on my pension out here. And I don't like to come into the village more than once a week."

"Oh?"

"I've never cared for small towns. I got used to it some in Afghanistan, running the field hospital. But it's never my choice. I'd rather be alone."

"Do you think you'll come back to London at some point?"

"Yeah. Yes. At some point."

Sherlock nodded. "So... what do you do with your time?"

John shrugged slowly. "I've been helping Stan and Peg a bit – running the cold press, doing some maintenance. I sit with Davey sometimes. And I've been writing."

"What have you been writing?"

"Oh, some about Afghanistan. Some about you – your work. Erm, some fiction, some non-fiction."

"I'd love to read some." Sherlock said. "If you don't mind."

"No, I'd like that... but you always hated my writing."

"I always loved your writing, John!" Sherlock protested.

"You always complained about... everything."

"Did I? You wrote about me... it was embarrassing."

"Embarrassed? You?"

"You... described me too much."

"I described you as much as I wanted."

Was John flirting? If Sherlock stretched out his fingers and just brushed them against John's fingertips would he pull away?

Sherlock sat back and toyed with his coffee cup.

"Mm!" John looked at the watch strapped around his prosthetic, the fingers rippling with the movement. "Stan and Peg made me promise I'd bring you for dinner – they want to thank you. I know... I told them you don't go in for that, but they insisted. After what we did to their honey harvest, we owe them..."

"What was wrong with the honey?!"

John laughed. "I don't know. They insist it was fine, but... there's something they aren't saying. Come on." John stood up and dropped a few pound coins on the table. "Ta, Ben." He called as they left the café.

They tramped through the village to the lone cab stand. John hailed the ancient cabbie. "Oi, Floyd."

"Bin waitin' forya, John." The old man said. "Get in."

Sherlock caught John's eye and exchanged an amused eyebrow raise as they got into the cab. Sitting in the back with John caused a flood of memories – how many times had they sat together in cabs? Their first night together and a hundred times after... how often had they snogged in the back of cabs? Not nearly enough!

 

\---

 

After breaking up with John, Sherlock's return to celibacy was hard won. 

He wanted sex. 

He didn't want a boyfriend – or girlfriend – he didn't want a relationship. Even if he ever 'got over' John, he didn't want someone else. He just wanted to be fucked. He wanted to be on his knees with a cock down his throat.

It was terrifying – more terrifying than when he was a teenager just realizing his desires, when he thought there was something terribly wrong with him, thought he was sick – now he knew there was nothing wrong with being a submissive bottom, and he knew how good it felt, how incredible bodily pleasure could be in the right hands. (Or hand)

And that was key – the right hands. The wrong hands could abuse him, infect him, infest him, hurt him in innumerable ways.

The world was full of the wrong hands – Sherlock knew that sex with men was exceedingly easy to get. There were parks and toilets all across London where men cruised for sex 24 hours a day. All he'd have to do is walk into a public bog and make eye contact with a man. He would follow Sherlock into a stall, shove him up against the metal wall and take his arse hard and fast. Or he could find a toilet with a glory hole, a hole cut into the wall between the stalls, and wait for someone to stick his prick through it. Sherlock could suck it or fuck himself on it. He could stay in the stall as long as he wanted servicing cock after cock...

It called to him like the drugs did. 

He learned quickly that he couldn't even self-pleasure. Not only did it leave him emotionally destroyed at losing John, it made Sherlock want more sex, rougher sex, with frantic desire.

Sherlock had cut himself off. He spent hours meditating, denying himself food and rest, trying to get out of his body. Trying to return to that state of living within his brain, untroubled by the inconvenient desires of his body. Food, sex, sleep, comfort ... all equally unimportant...

All that was important was flexing his enormous brain.

Before Sherlock boarded the train to Scotland, he pulled the equipment out from under the loo sink and prepared himself the way he'd done almost every day that he and John had been lovers.

 

\---

 

They were far enough north that the sun didn't set until half nine pm. After dinner it was just becoming dusk, the sky moody with the strange half-light. Davey had been put to bed and Sherlock had enjoyed both his own and John's pudding. Stan had pulled out a bottle of Upper Lothian whisky and poured glasses for himself and John.

Sherlock was struck by the comfortable relationship between John and the MacFarlands. Of course, John made friends everywhere he went, but this was different. There was a brotherly closeness between 'Doc' and 'Gunny' that seemed to go beyond the camaraderie of soldiers.

"You were pretty quiet in there." John observed as they left the MacFarland's cottage. 

"Was I?"

"Yeah. I warned them that you would probably be rude, so they weren't bothered... I'd just thought... never mind..."

"What? You'd thought what?"

"That you might make an effort."

Sherlock eyed John, trying to gauge how upset he was – how much DID Stan mean to him? "I hate being a third wheel." He said.

"Third...?" John's confusion cleared suddenly. "Oh my god, you're jealous!"

"I'm not!" 

John hid a smile, poorly. "You are!" 

Sherlock felt a cringeworthy embarrassment. He WAS jealous.

John must have sensed his distress. "Sherlock." He said more kindly. "You have no reason to be jealous of Stan MacFarland. Or Peg, or Davey. Stan's a mate, a good mate, and he's helped me. But he's not you."

Sherlock's embarrassment morphed into confusion – what did that mean?!

"Here's your cab." John said. He raised his hand to greet the wizened cab driver. "Oi, Floyd." 

"My cab?" Sherlock asked as John opened the door for him.

"Yeah. Floyd'll take you back to the Inn."

"Where are you going?"

"Home. My bike is in the barn. Hey, what time is your train tomorrow? We can meet for breakfast."

"I'd hate to make you come all the way to Rosemarkie two days in a row." Sherlock said haughtily and climbed into the cab. 

"Don't be an idiot." John said. "I'll be at the Inn at 9 am."

"That's a bit late for me to make my train." Sherlock pulled the strands of his dignity around him and refused to look at John.

"Then you'll take a later train." John said. "9 am." He shut the door of the cab and patted the trunk, signaling Floyd to go.

Sherlock brooded all the way back to the Inn. What was John playing at?

He didn't expect to sleep. He continued to brood as he lay awake. But he must have dropped into a doze without realizing it because John joined him in the overly soft bed, climbing under the duvet and pressing himself to Sherlock's back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest like iron bars, and whispered in his ear. John's big prick slid into him easily, giving him intense pleasure. As Sherlock strove to make sense of John's words, whispering, whispering endlessly, John fucked him and fucked him... until Sherlock opened his eyes to the morning light streaming through the window. His prick was hard under the covers. As he lay there willing it away, he realized he never had understood what John was saying.

 

\---

 

John took him back to the café for breakfast. Ben had more customers today, but the early breakfast crowd had mostly gone – though some were still nursing coffee whilst chatting or reading the Sunday paper – and the brunch rush wouldn't start for another hour.

"Aye, John." Ben said as John led Sherlock to a booth.

"Morning, Ben." John said. "Two coffees and a full English for me. Sherlock?"

"Blueberry muffin." Sherlock mumbled.

"Thank you for coming all this way." John said when they'd sat. "I didn't know if you would."

Sherlock was startled – he couldn't think of anywhere he wouldn't go for John. Didn't John KNOW that? "Hmph." He said. If John didn't know, there was no way to explain.

Ben brought their coffee and Sherlock's muffin. Sherlock started spooning sugar into his.

"I read about the Fitzrovia Affair in the papers." John said. "It sounded interesting. A nine at least."

"Eight and a half." Sherlock said, avoiding John's eyes. "It would have been a nine if the police had called me in earlier. But after four murders, it wasn't that difficult to find the common denominator."

"It was the au pair, right?"

"Of course it was the au pair! It was OBVIOUSLY the au pair."

"Not to the police, apparently."

"Inspector Darren lacked the imagination to think a 150 cm, 45 kg, blond girl could stab someone, let alone four someones."

"Mm." John sipped his coffee.

Sherlock peeked at him from under his fringe. "Do you miss it?"

"Yeah. Every day."

THEN WHY DON'T YOU COME BACK?! The thought shouted itself through Sherlock's brain. He didn't say it, he just nodded and let an awkward silence grow between them.

Ben brought John's breakfast and set it in front of him. "One full English." He said.

"Ta." John said. He turned the plate until the sausage was on the left side. Then he picked up his knife with his right hand and gave it to his left, the prosthetic fingers curling around its handle. Then he picked up his fork and proceeded to slowly cut the sausage in half. He moved his coffee cup off the saucer and transferred half the sausage to it, concentrating as he used the knife to slide it off the fork. He pushed it across the table to Sherlock. Then he cut up the rest of his sausage, gaining skill as he went along. He attempted to set the knife on the table, but dropped it the few inches instead. John grimaced.

Sherlock was grateful for the distraction. How often had John shared out sausage or bacon? Sherlock had rarely ordered breakfast for himself, telling John airily 'my breakfast is contained within yours' and stealing bites of potato and beans. Sherlock had forgotten that. His throat was thick and tears threatened to spill down his face at the memory.

Why HAD he come here?

John cleared his throat. "Do you have anything on at the moment? Any interesting cases?" He asked then put a lump of sausage and tomato in his mouth.

"Nothing pressing." Sherlock replied, matching John's casual tone. "There's a spat of hotel burglaries that I'm looking into. And I've started a comparative study of acids."

"Don't tell me you're running it on the kitchen table."

Sherlock's lips twitched into a little smile. "No. Mrs. Hudson is perfectly capable of murdering me if I destroy another table." He picked up his own fork and knife and cut into his half of the sausage.

John snickered.

"Tell me more about your writing." Sherlock said. 

"Oh, erm... I was in Switzerland for a month and a half, for the surgery." John lifted his left hand. "I was restricted to the clinic with only a telly and a few books for company. I started thinking about the blog – that I wrote about your cases."

"Our cases." Sherlock corrected without thinking. He blushed.

John just nodded. "Yeah. I'd really loved writing them up. Sometimes I'd pretend it was a chore, but it never was."

"I know."

"Instead of feeling badly that I didn't have that to write about, I started writing about my time in Afghanistan. Stream of consciousness, at first, just bits and pieces. I reread what I'd written and a short story started to form in my head. So I wrote it. Took a while, lots of revisions...

"When I got back here, I kept it up. I was struggling with the new prosthesis, spending hours every day on exercises, repetitions. Trying to train my brain to trigger the movements automatically as I thought about them. It was massively frustrating at first... and the writing felt productive."

Sherlock ate a forkful of potato off John's plate and John seemed pleased.

"I finished the short story and started another, and another. Eventually I started mapping out something longer, something with multiple chapters. I've been working on that for a few months now."

"Fiction? Non-fiction?" Sherlock asked. 

"Fiction based on my experiences."

Sherlock toyed with his coffee cup. "When can I read some of your work?" He asked.

"I can send you something." John said. "Or maybe, sometime, you can come out to the shack."

"Sometime?"

John met his eye. "If you want to visit again."

"You're inviting me back?"

"Yes. If you want to."

"When?" Sherlock asked. "When is good?"

"You have more on than I do." John said. "What's good for you?"

Sherlock considered. If he said next weekend it might come across as pushy or desperate. He named a date two weeks hence.

John nodded. "If you come on Friday, I'll take you to my place on Saturday. Show you around. Both rooms." He smiled wryly.

"All right. Good."

John glanced at his watch. "Mm, better eat up if you're going to make the train."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next - Sherlock sees John's seaside shack.


	9. John's Wee Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees where John has been living.

John brooded over Mycroft's proposal for several weeks. 

He'd been staying in Stan and Peg MacFarland's spare room, working the farm with Stan and rambling the countryside during the days and staring at the ceiling at night. His depression wasn't any better – he hated what he'd done to Shane, he missed Sherlock all the time, and he was a bloody cripple. The only thing that got him out of his room was the knowledge that Stan's injuries had been far more debilitating and he functioned just fine and with good humour. John was too ashamed to wallow in bed. 

Still his depression weighed him down. The hard work helped, talking with Stan helped, even the wild, windy coast helped... but not enough. It was but a drop in the ocean.

The bright spot was little Davey. The boy had taken to John. Perhaps he associated him with rescue – though he'd been nearly catatonic with fear – perhaps he just liked the troubled man who had moved into the bedroom next to his. In any case, John was the only person the boy would let his parents leave him with. He was a bright, inquisitive lad who asked question after question and told John little jokes and stories. John found him delightful.

John slogged on until one evening Stan took him aside. "What is it, Doc?" He asked. "What's been weighing on your mind so heavily?"

"Beyond breaking the hearts of people I love and running out on everyone and everything I know?"

Stan laughed out loud, a great ringing peal. "Aye, other than that."

John grimaced. "Nothing."

"C'mon, Doc. I can see that you're struggling with something."

John paused to arrange his thoughts. "I've been offered a deal with the devil, Gunny. And I'm tempted."

"The devil?"

"A very powerful, and rather scary man."

"Someone you know?"

"Yeah." John didn't elaborate.

"What is he offering?"

"A hand. An experimental prosthetic, cutting edge technology... the best available." John lifted the hook and opened the pincers. "It's not panacea... it's not a real hand. It wouldn't do half of what a hand is supposed to... but it does a lot. More than anything else – and if you can believe the researchers, it has the potential to do even more. I've reviewed their work... it's medically sound. And Mycroft has offered to get me into the trial."

"But he wants something in return."

"Yeah. Yes. I don't know if I can do it."

"What is it, Doc?"

"I was with someone... someone close to this man. In exchange for getting me into the trial, he wants me to get back in contact... invite this person to visit – within a year is what he said. I think he thinks we'll get back together or something."

Stan frowned. "Is that all? Invite your ex to visit?"

"Gunny..." John sighed miserably. "You don't understand. I was a complete knob. I drove this person away. I'm not proud of it. I don't want to be the cause of more hurt. More pain. How can I be so selfish? How can I do that to someone ... for personal gain?

"Do it." Stan said.

"What?"

"Do it! Do you think I wouldn't jump at a chance for an arm that had any function at all? Do you think ANYONE in our situation wouldn't?! Don't you DARE turn this down."

"But...What if you had to hurt Peg to get it? REALLY hurt her?"

"I don't think that's the right question." 

"What's the right question, gunny?"

"How will you feel if you turn this down?"

"Oh, god...." This was an impossible choice.

Stan looked thoughtful. "I hope I'm not out of line, Doc, but is 'this person' Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"It was pretty clear you two were close – none of my business, of course."

"I really fucked it up with him. The last thing I want to do is reopen old wounds."

"John, don't overthink this. Take the hand! Extend the invitation when the time comes. Maybe Sherlock will refuse and that'll be that. If he does come, I have no doubt you'll treat him with the utmost decency and compassion."

John shook his head, still torn. He hadn't treated Sherlock decently or compassionately when he had the chance. There was no reason to think he'd do any better a second time around.

 

\---

 

John caught sight of Sherlock and waved, consciously straightening his fingers and thumb. He leaned down to the child holding his right hand. "There he is, Davey, say hello to Sherlock."

"He's tall." The child whispered.

"He is indeed tall. Taller than your dad and me."

"Hello." Sherlock said to the boy. Then to John. "I didn't expect to see you here."

John smiled at Sherlock. "I caught a ride into Inverness with Peg. She's running some errands while Davey and I are here to meet your train. Thought it would be nicer than the bus anyway." John was nervous. He could see that Sherlock was nervous too. Almost as nervous as they'd been two weeks prior. He checked his watch. "We have a half hour before we're due to meet Peg. Let's show Davey the trains, shall we?"

As John had hoped, Davey loved the trains – and Sherlock had lots of information about them, enough to answer all of Davey's questions. (John only had to head off mentions of gruesome deaths twice.) Soon, the boy had taken hold of Sherlock's hand as well as John's and walked between the two men. 

'This could have been our life,' John thought, if Sherlock hadn't left, if they'd given their romance a chance. He had no idea how Sherlock felt about children. He'd paid Davey little attention when they'd had dinner at the MacFarlands two weeks ago. But he was making up for it now.

By the time they got to the car, Davey was enraptured. He told his mum excitedly about the trains, and Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to sit beside him, so – after a bit of non-verbal communication with Sherlock to confirm he was amenable – John took the front.

"We're having pub dinner tonight!" Davey informed Sherlock in his piping voice. "Fish an chips! Do YOU like fish an chips? I do – but not malt vinegar. Yuck!"

"I do like fish and chips." Sherlock said.

"What about YOU, John? Do you like fish an chips?"

"You know I do, Davey. And I like malt vinegar."

"Yuck!" He giggled.

John listened to the boy chatter on and smiled at Sherlock's patience. He was actually good with the child, thoughtfully answering every question and letting the boy be silly.

"Are you coming to pub dinner with me?" Davey inquired presently.

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "You'd have to ask John."

"Why?"

"Because I'm here to see John. But I don't know what he's planned."

"You came to see John?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I haven't seen him since he moved to Scotland and I miss him."

"Oh." The little boy's eyes were wide. "Daddy says John came to stay with us because he's sad on the inside."

"I suppose that's true."

"Are you sad on the inside?"

"Sometimes. But not like John – he couldn't stop being sad."

"Is he sad now?"

"I don't know." Sherlock said. "I hope not." 

John didn't really know either – he was feeling better, certainly. He wasn't struggling to get out of bed any longer. But he wasn't what he had been. He didn't know if he ever would be again.

Davey looked Sherlock over, then John in the front seat. "Are you brothers?" He asked.

Sherlock smiled. "No." He said.

"Are you married? My friend Rory has two daddies and they're married."

Sherlock's smile faded. "No." He said.

"We're friends, Davey. Sherlock is my best friend." John said from the front seat, his heart breaking for Sherlock a little.

"Who's your best friend?" Sherlock asked the child.

Davey brightened. "My best friend is Maisy!" 

As the boy continued on, John marveled at the honesty of children. Davey sensed their close relationship and tried to identify it. Brothers, husbands... he and Sherlock were both and neither...

John and Sherlock did end up having fish and chips in the pub with the MacFarlands. John was happy to see that Sherlock seemed to have got over his jealousy of Stan, he was much more personable. He even allowed Stan to buy him a drink, a single malt that he drank rather quickly. Sherlock stood a second round. He rarely drank and John thought that despite his size and the half portion of fish and chips, Sherlock was feeling the liquor.

John was both bemused and wary – a less inhibited Sherlock was not something John was prepared for.

He decided to ride back with the MacFarlands instead of engaging the old cabbie, which meant he only had a few minutes to walk Sherlock to the Carriage House.

"Floyd will be here for you tomorrow at 9 am. He'll bring you to mine." John said.

Sherlock nodded. John thought he seemed disappointed, but better that than embarrassed. Or worse. 

"Don't expect much." John said.

"Do you want children, John?" Sherlock asked.

Where had that come from? "Erm... I haven't thought about it much." John said. "Davey's a charmer, that's for sure. But I'm getting older..." John cleared his throat. "What about you, Sherlock. Do you want children?"

"God, no. Mycroft and I were horrible children. I can't imagine inflicting that upon myself. Let alone the world."

John suppressed his smile. "Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

 

\---

 

John woke early the next morning and went for his run. Regular exercise, the anti-depressant pills, hard work on the MacFarland's farm, his writing... these things were dragging him up out of depression. But Sherlock... seeing Sherlock felt dangerous.

He'd had dream last night, not exactly erotic, but sex had been in the air. He'd been in the flat in Baker Street, Sherlock was there and they were together, a couple. Most of the dream was Happy Families: eating together, laughing together, holding hands as they walked together, running together after a suspect... then they returned to the flat, hot from the chase, hot for each other, snogging on the stairs and pulling at each other's clothes. He'd had both his hands... 

It had been wonderful to see Sherlock two weeks ago. Despite his acting surly and jealous with the MacFarlands, the visit had gone well. They'd both been tentative but their friendship was deep and they'd fallen into familiar rhythms. John had invited him back impulsively – Sherlock was due to leave and John hadn't wanted it to end.

John's feelings were confusing. But what was crystal clear was how much John didn't want to go backwards. The overwhelming despair... John wasn't sure he could survive it again. 

He was worried that it had been too soon to see Sherlock. John should have waited. Would two months have made a difference? It was moot, Sherlock was here now. John needed to be careful.

Floyd's cab appeared at twenty past. John was waiting by the road – there wasn't vehicle access to John's shack. He paid the fare, exchanging pleasantries with the old man... and then he was alone with Sherlock. Really alone – no Ben and a café table between them, no little boy and his parents to run interference. Just the two of them and the ocean.

"It's, er, this way." John said, gesturing, and started the tramp up the hill. 

Sherlock stopped at the top in the whipping wind, the ocean spread out before them, gorse below, the path winding through it to a small stone cottage wth a thatched roof. "It's beautiful, John." He said. 

"Yeah. It doesn't get old." He led down through the gorse to the stone house.

"This is it." He said. It was windy, but the cottage was in a slight hollow, partially protected. John let them in, it was light – skylights in the thatched roof made up for small windows – but very small. The walls were irregular gray fieldstone with no framing. Here and there rags were stuffed in crevices between the stones, blocking drafts. The floor was wide plank. There was a wood stove in the center, at the axis of the two 'rooms,' the largest along the entire front of the cottage, the smaller a kitchen taking up half the back end. The other quarter was a closet and the loo. A bicycle hung from the rafters to one side of the door, coat hooks to the other. Below the coat hooks was a mat with running shoes and a pair of wellies. A small dining table with two straight back chairs sat in the corner nearest the kitchen, across from a small sofa, chair and coffee table set on an area rug. Above the sofa there was a sleeping loft. Everything in the kitchen was half-sized – small sink, mini-fridge, hot plate, toaster oven, electric kettle and a narrow expanse of countertop with cupboards above and below. Cut wood for the wood stove was stacked along the adjacent wall. John's laptop sat on the dining table along with several notebooks and a tidy stacks of papers.

"Tea?" John asked hanging his coat on a hook. "Have you eaten? Toast?"

"Tea would be nice." 

"Sit." John said, waving his hand at the couch.

"Do you have electricity here?" Sherlock asked.

"There's a generator out back." John said, filling the kettle. "And the wood stove for heat. It's not much, but you can't beat the view."

"Must have been an exciting winter."

John guffawed. "Exciting, yeah. The water heater's pretty small. I don't bother with it usually, but a cold shower with the winter wind howling through here... a bit too exciting."

"Why here?" Sherlock asked. 

"Well... I didn't want to be in the village." John said. "I didn't want to be a lodger, take a room in someone's house. Peg and Stan wanted me to stay on with them, but I needed my own space. Somewhere I could keep myself to myself, you know. In my price range it was either here or a caravan. This place didn't have neighbors."

"You like it out here all alone?"

"Yeah. I've never been alone like this. Never had the chance. It's... restful."

"Mm."

"Don't take it personally."

"It's rather hard not to." Sherlock said.

John came out of the kitchen to face Sherlock. "Don't. Me being here, it's not about you. It's not about anyone. How can I explain? When we came here, there were these big stretches of nothing...they were wild and beautiful... I had... big stretches of nothing inside." John touched his chest. "It seemed like I could face it here."

Sherlock still looked confused. John really couldn't deal with Sherlock's abandonment issues. "Sherlock, you didn't do anything wrong. You were great, really. It was me who was screwed up. I fucked our relationship, not you. I would have told you if there was anything... kettle's boiled." John turned back to the kitchen and busied himself making tea.

After a minute, John brought a mug of tea and a small sack of sugar. He set it on the coffee table and went back for his own and a box of biscuits. He settled into the chair. "Sorry I don't have a sugar bowl."

Sherlock opened the sack of sugar. "This is new." Sherlock smiled into his tea. "Oh, ginger nut." He started opening the package.

John was relieved – Sherlock realized that John had bought sugar and biscuits because he was coming to visit. New sugar meant John cared. It was a bit sad that Sherlock could take comfort from such a small, everyday gesture. But John DID care.

"I'm afraid it's rather boring out here." John said. "No telly. Internet is spotty. No clients. We could walk down to the ocean. Or along the hillside. If you go too far there's a rubbish tip, rather spoils the mood."

"What do you do?"

"I take walks. I write. I read. I do exercises that are supposed to help me control the prosthetic better." John held up his left hand and made a fist. "I chop wood. I take long bike rides. I run the cold press for Stan. If I need something I ride to Rosemarkie. The genny runs on petrol, I ride to the petrol station when I'm running low. I take my refuse to the tip. I keep busy."

Sherlock had half a ginger nut in his mouth. "Social life?"

John snorted. "Dinner with the MacFarlands at the pub is the most social thing I've done in months."

"But you seem to know everyone in the village."

"It's not a big village, Sherlock. Big part of the reason I avoid it."

"You don't go to the pub for a pint?"

"I really don't. Why?"

"You've always been very social, John."

John shrugged. "Have I? It's not appealing here. And the last thing I need is to start drinking my problems away."

"Mm... why don't you show me where you walk?"

"Finish your tea."

John took him down to the beach. Sections of the trail were precipitous, Sherlock's street shoes and long coat weren't suited – John grabbed his hand as he slipped, keeping him from a fall. He held on until they were safely on the beach. It reminded John too much of his dream and he let go hastily. 

It was cold on the stoney beach with a damp, salty wind. The tide was going out, but was still quite high. Everything was gray – the sea, the stones, the sky – until one turned toward land. The cliff was gray and green, above it the gorse was in full bloom, bright yellow against emerald grasses. John's little cottage was invisible. They walked north silently, John thinking about his dream.

"Reminds me of the last time we walked." John said eventually, the July day they'd harvested Stan's honey was such a cherished memory.

"Bit colder, though." Sherlock said pulling his collar around his chin.

"You've gone soft. Come on – there's another path soon. It's warmer up top."

It was an easier path and Sherlock managed it on his own – John followed him up, making sure he didn't slip again.

"I thought you said it was warmer up here." Sherlock complained. 

John scoffed. "My cottage is this way." He kept the pace high for warmth. He was sweating by the time they got to his shack, peeling off his coat and jumper with relief. John got himself a glass of water and drank it down. "Want some?" He asked Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his coat on. He was back on John's couch, investigating the box of ginger nuts. "Would tea be too much trouble?"

"Not at all. Lunch? It's 13:10. Beans on toast?"

Sherlock shed his coat and moved to the dining table for his tea and John felt his eyes on his t-shirt and jeans – and his body underneath. It was uncomfortable. Was this how women felt when men undressed them with their eyes? Or maybe Sherlock was just staring at the prosthetic, the wires, the electrodes, way the straps disappeared into the sleeve of his t-shirt...

When he looked again, Sherlock had his mobile out. Maybe John had imagined it. Maybe he'd WANTED Sherlock to still want him. Was he still in love with Sherlock? He loved him, no question. But IN love?

"No bars." Sherlock said, stowing his phone in disgust.

"Yeah, it's spotty out here. The hills." John moved his laptop and papers to the coffee table and served the simple lunch. 

"Is that your writing?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. You can look after lunch if you want."

"I'd like to... but what will you do?"

"I have my hand exercises. I never miss a day." He picked his toast up with his left hand, only spilling a few beans, and took a bite. "Not exactly second nature yet. But it's only been eight months."

"How did you hear about this study?"

John had prepared for this question. He didn't want to lie to Sherlock, but one of Mycroft's conditions was that he not tell Sherlock about his meddling. "Shane." John said, feeling like a heel. "He found it when he was researching articulated hands. Gave me the information."

"Do you see him at all now?"

"No. Clean break."

"Like with me."

John chuckled – he couldn't help it. "No, not at all like with you." He saw Sherlock's look – a budding of questions, jealousy and hurt. "You're HERE." John pointed out. "He's not. Eat your lunch."

Sherlock was still so vulnerable. John felt profoundly ambivalent about that – part of him happy that after everything he'd done, Sherlock still cared for him. But he was also irritated at Sherlock's possessiveness and wary of hurting the man again. John was also terrified for himself, terrified that he'd fall back down that black hole.

He asked Sherlock to tell him about interesting cases he'd had. Sherlock related an amusing tale about three men, a stolen candelabra and a lady's virtue that made John laugh.

Sherlock did the washing up, what there was of it, and brewed more tea. John took a mug – he'd cooled down enough to need his jumper.

"This..." John said, palming the stack of papers when they were again settled in the tiny living room with their tea. "...is the first six chapters of a novel. I've been revising a bit, you'll see my notes in the margins... but you'll get the gist." John handed the papers over. 

"Thank you, John, for letting me read this."

"Don't thank me yet." John laughed. "Go ahead." John got up. "And just ignore me." He walked the few steps to the dining table and turned on a little speaker. He started streaming music from his smart phone, orchestral as Sherlock was there, and started his exercises. He felt self-conscious doing them in front of Sherlock, but he got on with it.

That's how they spent the next few hours, Sherlock engrossed in John's writing, John manipulating his prosthetic. Repetition after repetition... it was strange having someone else in his tiny cottage. Other than Stan or Peg dropping Davey by for John to sit with, no one had been here, let alone for all day. 

It was strange, but not uncomfortable. It was Sherlock. He'd happily shared space with Sherlock for years.

John was picking up and setting down a round Christmas ornament – something fragile enough to shatter if he squeezed too hard. Sometimes it was difficult to gauge the amount of force to use with the prosthetic hand – why he always held Davey's hand with his right. John had set it on the table when he realized that Sherlock was staring.

"What?" John asked. "Finished?"

"It's brilliant, John. Truly wonderful."

John was touched. "Well, you WOULD say that."

"I wouldn't." Sherlock insisted. "When have I ever told a polite lie? Much better to just tell the truth and save the person the time and effort. This... I really felt like I was there with you. In Afghanistan. I think ...I can understand war better. I understand more about you. I can't wait to read the rest."

John was blushing. "You'll have to. It's not written yet."

"Do you have a publisher lined up yet?"

John laughed out loud. "Of course not. I haven't even thought about publishing."

"You should, John."

"One thing at a time. Let me write it first."

"This part..." Sherlock flipped through the pages. "Here... you wrote..." John came and sat next to his friend on the couch. They discussed the chapters, Sherlock giving John his interpretation, seeing things in the text that John had not considered, at least not consciously. 

"You're very literary for a scientist." John told him. 

"Have I ever told you my theory of how climate change is affecting literary criticism?"

"There's no such theory." John giggled.

"Oh yes, I formulated it my second year at Uni. The more chaotic the climate, the less coherent the book reviews."

"You're making this up."

"I charted it – I had New York Times book reviews for the last 100 years."

"Oh well, the New York Times. That clinches it, liar." John laughed. 

Sherlock was smiling at him, happily, and John was laughing. Sherlock reached out – he was so close – and set his hand against John's cheek, his long, elegant fingers barely touching his skin. It was electric. For a moment, John was still. Then Sherlock leaned in towards him...

John stood up, tripping over the little coffee table, and retreated to the kitchen. He felt breathless, panicky. He splashed water on his face.

"John?" Sherlock was behind him – by the dining table but in the tiny cottage, it was too close. Too intimate. For a long minute John tried to compose himself, tried to still his racing heart, ignore his instinct to fight or flight. Finally he turned around, bum pressed to the sink, as far from the dining table as he could get in the little house.

Sherlock's eyes were piercing. For once he didn't seem vulnerable – he was examining, observing, deducing...

"You are seeing Inspector Martin." Sherlock said.

"Who?"

"Inspector Martin. Nan Martin. You're with her now."

"The copper? What are you on about?"

"It's all right, John. Just tell me."

"Sherlock, I'm not seeing anyone. If I were capable of being in a relationship, I had a perfectly good one. A very good one. I wouldn't have walked away."

"You're talking about Shane."

"Yes. Don't look at me like that, all wounded, Sherlock. YOU dumped ME. You had good reason to do it, but you did it. We were already over." 

(Except we'll never be over.) The unspoken thought took John by surprise.

"Why did you bring me here?"

"I told you, I missed our friendship." John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It was a mistake. I should have left well enough alone."

"I'm sorry... I..."

"No. I'M sorry." John said forcefully. "I drag you all the way up here – twice! Under false pretenses, apparently." John felt his mood sinking. "I'm sorry. I knew this would be a mess." He looked down at the prosthetic hand. "I never should have... I'm sorry..."

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed. "What's going on?" He asked. "Oh!.... Mycroft." His face fell. John couldn't meet his eyes. Sherlock turned around like a cat in a cage. "How do I get out of here?" He asked.

John felt exhausted. "Go up to the top of the hill and you'll get a signal on your mobile. You can call the taxi. Number's there, on the fridge." He felt himself slipping backwards, felt the empty blackness pulling him downward.

John heard the door open and close. 'That's that.' He thought. 'I knew I would hurt him again and I did it anyway.' He pulled his jumper off angrily and threw it to the floor, then his t-shirt. He painstakingly unscrewed the wires from the electrodes and then loosened the shoulder straps. He shrugged it off and pulled the prosthetic free. He set it on the counter. 

His stump was as ugly as ever, the electrodes embedded in his arm strange and alien-looking. But suddenly he couldn't be angry at it anymore. This was all his own fault. He couldn't blame Mycroft. He certainly couldn't blame Sherlock. Charles Sebastian had caused the amputation, and he was long dead. No use blaming anyone but himself.

John took off his shoes and jeans and climbed up the narrow ladder into his sleeping loft. He wrapped the duvet around himself and waited for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Mycroft plays with drones.


	10. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dreams of dancing with John.

Sherlock left the cottage – one step out of the shelter of the walls the wind shoved him hard, it grabbed his long coat and tore it from his body, splaying it out like a flag or a cape. Or a sail. 

It was still ridiculously bright out, a lively gray sky (like John's eyes when he laughed) presiding over the rich greens and cheerful yellows on the hillside, but the temperature had dropped and the chill wind had become bitingly cold. Sherlock fought his way towards the hill, struggling with his coat, trying to button it around him.

How could John live in this god forsaken place?

It took Sherlock a tedious amount of time to climb the path to the top of the hill. The gorse variously helping and impeding his effort. He'd always vaguely liked gorse, it's pure, shocking yellow incongruous on the rocky hillsides it seemed to prefer. But now he grew to hate it. It offered little shelter and no handholds, and worse, was unaffected by the howling wind.

When he finally achieved the top, the wind almost blew him over. He found his mobile and saw John was correct, the reception was good – or good enough. Sherlock walked down the other side of the hill towards the coast road, seeking shelter from the wind in the lee of the hill, keeping an eye on the bars, making sure he still had sufficient reception for a call.

Sherlock was humiliated – and furious in his humiliation. He'd trusted John!

He knew better than to trust Mycroft. His brother had been manipulating him – and events around him – for as long as he could remember. One of his very first memories was of Mycroft turning Mummy against Sherlock's beloved nanny because she wasn't 'intellectually rigorous enough.' Mycroft had continued arranging family, neighbors, school mates and school masters until he'd graduated to bigger things.

Now Mycroft arranged the British government –and from there the world. Yet he still made time to meddle in Sherlock's life. He could never escape it. Sometimes Sherlock used it, often he ignored it, and occasionally he fought it – but whatever Sherlock did, Mycroft was watching and arranging.

He'd sat down about halfway to the road to brood. He pulled out his phone – it was time to call the cab. (The single cab, what sort of wasteland WAS this?!)

He had no reception. 

Sherlock swore floridly. He wanted to smash the bloody phone – but he controlled himself, without it he had a rather long walk and it was COLD. 

Sherlock looked up at the top of the hill. Why hadn't he called when he was up there?! The thought of climbing back up was daunting. It was completely unreasonable that John had moved to this horrid place! Why had Sherlock ever thought coming to visit was a good idea? The realization that it was MYCROFT's idea was galling. KNOWING he'd been nothing but a duty John was fulfilling... Sherlock didn't think he'd ever felt so humiliated.

Sherlock wanted to roll into a ball and hide. He wanted to shrink down to a tiny dot and disappear. He wanted the bite of the needle in his arm, the sweet, sweet oblivion of heroin... there was no degradation that heroin couldn't erase... at least for a while.

Or there was that little package at home on the bookshelf... not that Sherlock would wait until London. But it was something to look forward to...

He wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his head lower into his collar – it was warmer on this side of the hill but not by much. The wind wasn't as strong, but it still whistled through the gorse.

Could he even get heroin in Rosemarkie? He had no doubt he could find it in Inverness... but in the pathetic backwater John had chosen for his home... he doubted Morag was dealing from the vicarage. Nor was Ben dealing from his nameless café... why would ANYONE choose this place?!

He retreated to his mind palace. He didn't feel as emotional in there. He envisioned John's betrayal as a physical thing, an ugly cancerous mass, and assigned it a place among Mycroft's many other trespasses.

Sherlock simply hadn't expected it of John. John had always seemed immune to Mycroft – or at least stubbornly resistant. But Mycroft had found John's price. Maybe it had always been just a matter of time.

There was no way in hell he was waiting for London before scoring some opioids!

How had he gotten here? Sitting on the side of a hill in the middle of nowhere, heart breaking from the betrayal of the one person he'd ever loved, AND NO BLOODY BARS ON HIS PHONE! 

His phone trilled.

Or maybe I do have a bar or two now, Sherlock thought. He pulled it out of his pocket – he had a text.

>How long are you going to sit there sulking, brother mine?<

Sherlock glanced around... then up. He scoffed unhappily.

***satellite or drone?***

>Drone, of course. Satellites have much more important people to focus on.<

Sherlock was gritting his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache.

***leave me alone***

>I would, but letting you die of hypothermia in the Scottish wilderness is a waste of a perfectly good resource<

Sherlock didn't deign to answer, his fury at his brother growing cold as the wind.

>Sherlock! Go back inside!<

***What was John's end of the bargain? Has he fulfilled it yet? Or will you take his hand away?***

Mycroft didn't reply right away. Sherlock put the phone in his pocket and huddled back into his coat. Eventually it trilled.

>One visit within one year. Of course I won't take the hand. What sort of monster do you think I am?<

***I know exactly what kind of monster you are*** 

>Always so dramatic!<

>Brother, go in out of the cold! Don't make me send in Rangers.<

***Fuck off.*** 

Sherlock turned off his phone and returned to his mind palace. One visit within one year. So the email, the invitation, the 'I miss my best friend' – none of that had been real. John was just fulfilling an obligation. Paying off the fancy prosthetic.

Sherlock had to give it to John, he hadn't suspected a thing. 

Why the second visit? A big bow on top of a job well done? More play acting to really sell the performance? It had been a mistake, obviously –John couldn't maintain the fiction.

Sherlock almost felt bad for John. As he clearly found Sherlock's touch repulsive, he must find Sherlock's presence just as difficult to bear. John wouldn't have to worry about that ever again!

At least no one would be taking the prosthetic from him. John had paid in full, he was free and clear. As bitter as he felt, Sherlock couldn't begrudge John the prosthetic. He blamed Mycroft. He should have simply given it to John! Not force him into hosting an unwelcome guest.

Sherlock didn't feel cold at all any longer. Hypothermia! Mycroft was the REAL drama queen in the family. He probably WILL send Rangers. Talk about a waste of resources!

He was getting sleepy. This wasn't the ideal place for a kip, but it wasn't SO uncomfortable. He lay down in the shadow of a gorse bush. Why had he hated the gorse so much? Sherlock couldn't remember. But they were such a beautiful yellow. He closed his eyes. Just a short kip then he'd call the cab. Maybe old Floyd knew how to score heroin in Rosemarkie. Sherlock couldn't wait to get back to London... escape this infernal wasteland...

The thing about John... there were so many things about John! Sherlock remembered his kisses, the exact texture and pressure of his lips, the heat, the way their noses would touch sometimes. How John tasted...

John was so beautiful... Sherlock wished they had danced together... he'd love to dance with John, whirling around the floor in each other's arms... he'd have to ask John to dance with him...

"SHERLOCK!"

Why was someone shouting? It was annoying. Sherlock curled up tighter determined to continue his kip. Determined to continue dancing.

"SHERLOCK! Wake up! Come on, wake up!"

Someone was pulling him upright. "Let me sleep!" He demanded, but wasn't entirely sure if he'd said it out loud.

"Sherlock!" Someone slapped him, hard! And again!

"Ow! Stop it..."

"WAKE UP!" Another slap! He opened his eyes, fluttering the lids against the brightness. "Come on, Sherlock!"

"Ow! What the bloody...! Stop hitting me!"

"You have to wake up! Come on, Sherlock, stand up. I can't carry you!"

"Carry me?... OW! Fuck!" It was John. John was slapping his face over and over. "Why are you hitting me?"

"Because you have to wake up!"

"We were dancing."

"Erm, great. Come on – UP!"

"Will you dance with me?"

"I will if you stand up."

"No, you come down here with me..."

"No! STAND UP!"

"Why?!"

"It's too cold out here! We have to get back inside! You have to get up and walk!"

"Your hand..."

"Up, stand up!"

"Mycroft said he wouldn't take your hand away."

"He didn't. Come on, Sherlock! That's good. Put your arm over my shoulder, you can lean on me."

"No... not that way... I don't want to walk up the hill again..."

"We have to! Come on, Sherlock! I need you to help me!"

"Help you?"

"YES! I need your help! Will you help me, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Always, John."

"Good, thank you. Help me get up the hill."

Sherlock wanted to lie back down and sleep. He didn't want to climb the bloody hill again. But John needed help. He had to help John. Then he could sleep.

It was so hard! And he was so sleepy! But John kept insisting...

The wind nearly knocked him over – it would have done without John holding him tight. He liked that – John's arm around his waist, his arm across John's shoulder. Almost like they were dancing...

"Ok, now back down. This is the easy part, Sherlock."

But it wasn't easy. The wind kept tugging on him, pushing and pulling at him. He lost his footing and slid...

"Sherlock?! Sherlock?!"

John again. "What happened?" 

"You fell. Come on, back on your feet, we're almost there."

Sherlock tried, he really tried. But his leg HURT. When he tried to stand on it, it wouldn't support his weight and he fell again. This time he felt the rocky ground slam into the side of his head. 

"Sherlock! You must stand up!"

"Can't." Sherlock managed. He tasted blood in his mouth.

"You have to. Just for a second. Use your good leg, I won't let you fall again. I've got you. Good, Sherlock. Now just lean forward - I can carry you the rest of the way over my shoulder, but I need you to cooperate. ... yeah, ooof, that's good, that's perfect..."

John's shoulder was digging uncomfortably into his belly and all the blood rushed to his head. He felt like he was floating, but his leg hurt – he wanted to get down. But John was gripping his wrist too tightly. Sherlock couldn't get free.

"Stop it! Stop struggling! Damn it, Sherlock, you're bloody heavy, stay still! I have to let go of your hand – but don't move, just another second..."

Sherlock was back in John's tiny cottage, sitting on a dining room chair. John was wrapping a duvet around him.

"Let me get the wood stove going." John said. It'll get a lot warmer. Sherlock watched John stack firewood and kindling in the stove and light it. "All right, give that a minute. I'll make tea. You'd like a hot cuppa."

Sherlock DID want tea. John was on the other side of the cottage now. 

"Watch out – the couch opens into a bed. Not the most comfortable, but I don't think I'm getting you in the loft any time soon. Here, I'll help you over. Don't lay down yet, we have to take off your clothes."

Sherlock felt VERY confused. Why did John want to take off his clothes? Were they going to have sex? Sherlock's leg hurt – it hurt a lot. Why were they having sex now?

"Leg hurts." Sherlock said as John pulled at his shirt.

"I bet it does." John said. "It's going to take a minute for me to get all these buttons undone one-handed. Feel free to help if you can."

Sherlock frowned at his shirt. His hands felt clumsy, but he tried to help.

"Ok, never mind." John said pushing his hands away with his stump. John was yanking the sleeves off his shoulders and suddenly he was shirtless. "No wonder you're bloody hypothermic – you don't even have a vest on! Ok, I'm taking your shoes off. I'll be very careful with the right one...."

Sherlock started to shiver - great, full-body, teeth-chattering shivers. And he was COLD!

"Cold." He said.

"Good." John replied. "You feel it now, that's good." He pulled Sherlock's shoe off and his calf and ankle exploded with pain.

"OW! FUCK!" 

"Sorry! Sorry! Can you help me with your trousers? Good. No, leave your pants on, just your trousers. Good. Lift up. Ok, I'm going to pull it down your right leg carefully. I'll do my best not to hurt you."

Sherlock grunted with the pain, but managed not to yell this time. 

"All right. Lay down, here's the duvet, and your coat. I'm making hot tea, then I'll examine your ankle."

John disappeared and Sherlock shivered and shivered. He couldn't get warm. He peeked out of the duvet at the wood stove – a fire was burning in it and John had left the little door open so the heat could get out into the room faster. But Sherlock couldn't feel it at all. He clutched the duvet around himself more tightly and shivered violently.

John was back with a mug. "Can you sit up? I'll help you. Here, hold the mug with both hands. Sip it – I put three sugars in. Can you hold it without dropping it."

"I cccccan hhhhold a mmmmug" Sherlock protested. 

"Mm. I'll help you. Another drink please." John took it from him. 

"Nnnnnno..."

"I'll give it back. I want to look at that leg. If it has to be set, sooner is better than later. He pulled the duvet off Sherlock's leg and touched it with his right hand. He lifted the leg and slipped his left forearm underneath. "I'm going to move your ankle. Tell me if it hurts." Supporting the leg with his forearm, John manipulated the foot with his hand.

"Ow! Yyyyyyes, thattttt hhhhhurts!"

"And this?"

"Yesssss, Nnnnnnot as mmmmmmuch." John moved his hand up to Sherlock's calf, feeling the bones and muscles beneath the skin."

"Ankle might be broken. Might just be a bad sprain. I'll wrap it." He stood up and Sherlock saw he was sweating – the fire in the wood stove was raging, but Sherlock still couldn't feel it. He found where John had set his tea and picked it up in shaking hands. He held the warm mug against his chest and sipped the hot liquid.

John was back. He'd put on the metal hook and pincers. Sherlock stared. "I need two hands to wrap your ankle properly." John said. He clacked the pincers together then got to work. 

"Wuhwuhwuhwhere'sssss yyyyyyour hhhhhhanddd? Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbow to watch John.

John was deftly wrapping the damaged ankle. "I don't want to make it too tight." John said, his hand gentle. 

"Wuhwhere issss itttt?!" Sherlock demanded.

"I don't need it." John said without looking up.

"Juhjuhjuhonnn!"

"We'll talk about it later." John said. "There. Feel better?"

Sherlock nodded. It DID feel more comfortable with the support.

Then John shrugged out of the harness and pulled the prosthesis off. He rolled the thick sock covering his stump off and set it aside. He pulled his t-shirt over his head while he stepped on his own feet to pull his trainers off. Then he shucked his jeans. He stood there in a pair of red pants looking down at Sherlock, bundled under the duvet and coat. 

John walked off. He put more wood into the wood stove and closed the little door. He disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a couple wool blankets. He spread these over Sherlock as well.

"Budge over." John said, lifting the duvet.

"Wuhwuhwhy?!"

"Have you NEVER heard of hypothermia? We have to get you warm." John climbed into the narrow bed. "On your side." He pressed himself against Sherlock's back and wrapped his arms and legs around him. Sherlock felt John's stump pressing against his abdomen. "This should work." John said. "Just try to relax – it's hot as a furnace in here, you'll get warm."

Sherlock shivered in John's arms. He'd wanted this – to lay in bed with John again, feeling John's body against his own. But he wanted John to want it too. 

"Ssshhhh" John soothed. "You're ok now."

"Wuhwhere'sss yourrrr hhhhhand?" Sherlock asked again. 

"Later." John pressed his forehead against the back of Sherlock's neck. He could feel John's breath on his shoulder... it was futilely arousing. "You can sleep now if you like, you're safe." John said. "You're safe now, you big idiot."

Sherlock didn't think he could sleep – the shivering wouldn't let him... but he must have because he woke in darkness and the shivers were gone. 

He heard a creak and looked over the covers. John, in only his red pants, was feeding more wood into the wood stove. The embers caught and began to burn in earnest again – and Sherlock saw the firelight glinting off John's arm. He could just make out the small, shiny electrodes embedded in his flesh.

When John was done feeding the fire, he closed the wood stove door and turned to see Sherlock sitting up.

"I didn't mean to wake you." He said. "How are you feeling?"

"Er... warm. Thank you. But I, erm, need the loo."

"Oh. Yeah – let me look at that leg." 

Sherlock threw the blankets back. John re-opened the door of the wood stove, lighting the room sufficiently to examine Sherlock's leg and knelt at the foot of the bed.

"Does this hurt?"

"Ungh! Yes."

"It's swelling. You shouldn't put any weight on it." John stood and offered his hand. "I'm afraid I'll have to be your crutch."

Sherlock took John's hand and pulled himself to his foot. John moved under his right shoulder, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock hopped, using John for support. John guided him through the kitchen to the toilet.

"Violá, the master bath." John said flipping on the bright light. 

Sherlock squinted and hopped into the tiny room, wedging himself between the sink and shower stall. 

"You're not dehydrated, anyway." John remarked from the kitchen as Sherlock washed his hands. 

But when Sherlock turned to let John help him back to bed, John's face creased with concern.

"Jesus! Sherlock, why didn't you tell me you hit your head?!"

"Oh... I didn't remember."

"You don't remember!?"

"I remember NOW."

"Ok, sit down, let me take a look." Sherlock sat on the toilet and John eased into the small space. He tilted Sherlock's head to get a better vantage. He grabbed a flannel and ran it under the tap. "I want to clean up some of the blood."

Sherlock winced when John applied the flannel. "Blood's pretty dry." He remarked. "Yeah, tiny cut actually, but you have a contusion. Any nausea or dizziness?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Not really."

"Ok. Let me know immediately if you start feeling symptoms. Ok? Don't hold out on me, concussions can be very serious."

"Yes, John."

"All right, back to bed. You aren't cold, are you?"

"Not at all. It's like a sweat lodge in here."

"You're telling me." 

Sherlock noticed now how warm John looked, his skin pink, dewy sweat on his lip and temples. He also noticed John was all but naked. He'd gained much-needed weight since moving to Scotland, but a significant portion was muscle. He was mesmerized by the muscles in John's abdomen shifting under his skin.

He licked his lips self-consciously.

Sherlock stood and let John take hold of him again. "I was dreaming about dancing." He said.

"What?"

"Dancing. Do you like to dance?"

"Erm... not really. I never learned..."

"Mm." Sherlock saw John's new prosthetic on the kitchen counter. It looked forlorn there, next to the toaster oven.

"Ok... there... lie down. I think I can stow the extra blankets." John rolled them in a ball and tossed them onto the sleeping platform. John lay on the bed, but didn't get under the duvet. "Not yet – let me cool down a bit." 

Sherlock lay under the duvet. He could feel John's warm bulk against his arm through the cover. He glanced down the bed, taking in John's nakedness once more. He thought about John recoiling from his touch earlier – John didn't seem to have a problem touching Sherlock in a non-sexual context. Or was this the doctor taking over from the man?

"They say freezing to death isn't a bad way to go – you just fall asleep." John remarked. "Hypothermia sneaks up on you, is what I mean. What were you doing out there?"

"I don't know. Feeling sorry for myself. I didn't expect to need rescuing." Sherlock frowned. "How did you know...?"

John scoffed. "Mycroft, of course." He said with distaste. "Apparently he can boost phone reception if he chooses. He texted... Sherlock..."

"I know you invited me because Mycroft made you."

John sighed. "The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you again." He shifted restlessly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry he made the new prosthetic conditional." 

"Yeah." John paused, then spoke carefully. "Mycroft said you were close to a crisis – that's why I had to invite you now. Is that ... true?"

Sherlock felt exhausted. OF COURSE Mycroft knew. "Yes." He said, relieved it was dark, relieved he didn't have to look John in the eyes. "I bought cocaine. I haven't used it... l ran across an old supplier during a case and he offered. I bought an eight-ball."

"Where is it now?" John asked tightly.

"It's on the bookshelf behind the analytic chemistry text." Sherlock admitted. It occurred to him that Mycroft had kept him from using the cocaine – he'd stopped obsessing about it the moment he'd seen John's email. 

Sherlock hated it when Mycroft was right.

"Do you want to ask Mrs. Hudson to dispose of it or should I?" John asked.

"We can do it together, if you like. If we can get some bloody reception out here!"

John scoffed. "Seriously, Sherlock..." John shifted restlessly. "I don't know what I'd do..."

"John, you don't have to pretend." Sherlock felt the familiar misery, the ache in his chest. "I know you don't... I'll be out of your hair in the morning."

"Sherlock... I know you won't believe this now, but I have missed you terribly."

"It IS hard to believe." John was rigid at his side. "I'm sorry I touched you like I did. I didn't realize it would be so disgusting to you."

"Oh, Sherlock!"

"It's OK, John. I know now. I'll never make that mistake again."

"Stop it!" John had rolled onto his side, leaning over Sherlock. "That's not it at all!" His fingers touched Sherlock's brow lightly, brushing errant curls out of his eyes. "It's not that I don't want you – it's that I DO!" He pulled his hand away abruptly and lay down again. "I shouldn't have told you that."

"Why not, John?"

"Because I have nothing to give you! I'm a ... hollowed out shell. There's ...nothing."

"Nothing..." Sherlock said very softly. "But you DO love me."

"Yes."

Sherlock felt a calmness descend on him – he hadn't realized how tense he'd been... for months and months, until the tension melted. "What do you need from me?" He asked.

John sighed. "Forgiveness."

"You have that already."

John was silent. Sherlock thought about emptiness... what did John mean by that?

"Well..." John said, breaking the silence. "Maybe you could visit again. Not right away."

"I'll come whenever you want me." Sherlock said eagerly.

"I shouldn't have asked that."

"Why not?"

"You'll wait.... you shouldn't! It's too overwhelming. The weight of your expectations... I can't bear it."

Emptiness. Sherlock spoke carefully. "I'll make a deal with you, John – let me email you and I won't expect an answer, I won't expect an invitation. I'll BELIEVE that you love me – because you said you do – but I won't expect anything."

John lay quietly as Sherlock counted out the long seconds. "That sounds ok." John said finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: John rejects the new prosthetic...


	11. Faith and Faithfulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John experiments, Sherlock wants to believe.

As a scientist, Sherlock believed in what his senses told him – what he saw and smelled, touched, tasted and heard. That he saw more – much more – than most, made his dedication to the scientific method all the more rigorous. Evidence was all around, Sherlock had but to gather it.

Faith was not something he'd grappled with.

The morning after he'd rescued Sherlock from a truly embarrassing and pointless death, John had introduced Sherlock to the harsh realities of faith – of believing strongly in something without any proof or evidence.

"Don't expect much from me." John had warned.

"I don't expect anything." Sherlock replied blithely. He felt good – actually he felt headachy and irritated at not being able to walk (AGAIN!) – but he felt upbeat about John's admission the night before and though he wasn't going to admit it, he was downright bullish on his chances of getting John back.

"But really, don't." John said. "I'll only disappoint you again."

"Yes! You've said that already."

"You aren't listening – if you were, you wouldn't look like the cat that ate the canary."

"I look like a man who's fallen down a cliff and ruined his trousers."

"You look like you think we're back together – we aren't, Sherlock. I still have feelings, but that doesn't MEAN anything." 

"Mm." Sherlock was busy trying to beat dirt and gorse out of his coat.

"Do you have to do that inside?" John asked. "You've been here one day and the whole place is a pigsty. That has to be a record, even for you."

Sherlock looked around – the tiny place was even smaller in disarray than it had been when tidy. It was like living in the back of a van. But he'd better get used to it – he'd be spending time there from now on. "I can clean up... some." He attempted to sweep the dirt into a pile with his good foot.

"Don't bother. Seriously, just stop. The sooner you're on your way, the better it'll be for both of us." John said. "The ambulance will be here soon – I'm going to the road to meet them. You have everything?"

"You aren't wearing your prosthetic." Sherlock said frowning.

"It's like you're a detective or something..."

"Yes. I deduce from your truculent frown – and the way you shoved it aside to make tea and toast – that you've decided to give it up."

"I haven't decided." John said defensively.

"Good. Only an idiot would stop wearing it because of this.

"No, an idiot would sulk in six degree weather until he became hypothermic."

"I wasn't sulking." Sherlock protested. "Ok, I was sulking A BIT. But you'd sulk if Mycroft were your brother."

"If Mycroft were MY brother, I'd be sulking at her Majesty's pleasure. All right – I'll be back with Emergency Care."

"No, John..." Sherlock caught his arm. "Put it on."

"Don't tell me what to do, Sherlock."

"I'm not. Put the hand on."

John huffed irritably. "Fine! Your way. ALWAYS your way." He flung his coat off and struggled impatiently out of his jumper and thermal shirt. 

Sherlock was again confronted with John's sculpted torso – though he'd always loved the bit of softness on John's belly, he was discovering a whole new appreciation for this washboard firmness.

It took a full four minutes for John to don the prosthetic. First he rubbed a jelly on his arm, coating the diodes thoroughly. Then he put the harness around his right shoulder and placed his arm in the canvas shell, fitting the wires to their mounts in his arm. Then, using his teeth, he laced up the shell. When he was finished he moved the fingers experimentally. Satisfied, he started dressing again.

John was back 15 minutes later with two men, a stretcher and crutches. It was obvious that the Emergency Care men wanted very much for Sherlock to use the crutches to get over the hill to the Ambulance – considering that he'd just forced John into wearing his hand, Sherlock was compelled to try. His mood turned completely foul, both from struggling with the bloody sticks and then from having to be strapped onto the bloody stretcher.

When they finally achieved the road, Sherlock was deposited, still strapped down, into the back of the ambulance. John climbed in and started undoing the buckles, his new prosthetic moving almost as smoothly as a real hand would. 

"You're right about this." John told him, holding out the prosthetic. "It would be idiotic to stop using it. You can get the rest yourself, yeah?" John indicated the remaining stretcher straps and started climbing out of the ambulance.

"You're not coming with me?" Sherlock asked.

"Not this time. Let me know how it goes." 

Sherlock was shocked. John ALWAYS went to hospital with him. He supervised Sherlock's treatment and smoothed things over when an invariably cranky Sherlock offended the staff. He started to protest, but didn't get beyond "But..." before an Emergency Carer slammed the door shut.

Thus began Sherlock's first test of faith.

 

\---

 

The second began three months later. 

Sherlock was just realizing that the criminal mischief he'd dismissed this morning was related to his pursuit of a foreign spy when his phone rang. He almost ignored it... until he realized that it was ululating rather that trilling – John was calling!

As he answered, his torso filled with fluttering anticipation – this could be bad news or it could be great, another invitation... or maybe John was coming home!

"John?"

"Yeah... (ahem) I'm glad I caught you."

It's not good news, Sherlock realized with a sinking heart.

"What is it? You aren't hurt?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I just called to talk."

"You never call unless it's serious, John."

"Right. You're right."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, although he was quite certain he didn't want to know.

John sighed deeply. "I want to see other people."

Sherlock didn't reply. What was there to say? They weren't together – they'd broken up last summer and hadn't talked or seen each other until a few months ago. They lived in different parts of the country. Yes, John had said he still loved Sherlock, but he'd warned Sherlock over and over not to read too much into that admission.

But John's fingers lightly brushing stray curls from Sherlock's forehead, lingering briefly... those fingers had told a different story. They'd spoken of love and desire undiminished by time and distance...

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know this isn't what you want to hear."

"Who?" It was out of Sherlock's mouth before the thought had fully formed. "Who is it?"

It's not like that – there isn't anyone specific – I haven't met anyone. I just... I've been thinking about this and after your visit, I thought I should tell you."

"All right." Sherlock said tightly.

"All right?"

"What am I supposed to say, John? I think it's great you feel ready to have a relationship now? So great to know you're making progress?

"I didn't say 'relationship."

"So you just want to shag. Ok."

"Maybe. Yeah... look, Sherlock, this isn't about anything you did or didn't do." John said.

"Why would it be about me? It's clearly not about ME."

"I'm just saying it's not."

"Clearly." 

"I mean, I know you have feelings..."

"Are we finished talking about this yet?"

"You tell me, Sherlock." John said.

Silence stretched between them... Sherlock knew protesting would do nothing but make John defensive. Then angry. But John COULDN'T expect Sherlock to give his blessing.

"We aren't together. You can do whatever you want." Sherlock said finally.

"I know. You're ok? Sherlock, I don't want this to be an excuse for drug use–"

"Oh for god's sake!" Sherlock exclaimed and terminated the call abruptly.

Was it Inspector Martin, he wondered? Or Stan MacFarland? Were John and Stan exchanging longing glances and furtive kisses in the barn? Was Stan telling Peg some version of what John had just told him? Had Stan insisted that John tell Sherlock?! That would be unbearable, John's new lover pitying him.

Or DID John just want to shag? Perhaps he'd already downloaded Grindr or Tinder and was scoping out potential hook-ups in Rosemarkie.

Sherlock considered and rejected getting on a train (or plane) to Inverness.... there was nothing he could do – he couldn't rail against this, he couldn't make demands or set conditions, he couldn't beg and plead and try to make his case. 

Anything he did would simply make everything worse. That didn't stop him from wanting to throw the mother of all tantrums – and he would, just not at John.

But he wouldn't give John the satisfaction of being right – John didn't deserve that. Let John fuck Stan, or everyone in that blasted village! Sherlock didn't NEED drugs. This didn't make him want them any more than he already did, THIS wouldn't be his excuse. 

Sherlock turned his thoughts back towards the spy... he couldn't allow himself to be distracted right now. He would tuck this conversation away in his Mind Palace and get back to work.

And Sherlock would continue to have faith that John loved him. 

He'd try anyway.

 

\---

 

Something happened about a month after Sherlock's visit: John dropped his dinner. He had a sausage and beans on a plate, carrying it to the table, the sausage rolled off the plate. Without thinking, John caught it midair IN HIS LEFT HAND!

He sat at the table stunned. The doctors had told him that eventually, with lots of practice, he might be able to use the new prosthetic automatically as an extension of his own body. 

Using the hand had always required conscious thought. Which muscle to twitch and in what order. He had to think it through. With hours and hours of daily practice, he'd gotten better at it, faster, more seamless. But John hadn't believed it would ever be more than that.

But he'd caught the bloody sausage! He'd moved instinctively, the fingers closing around the greasy meat without him willing it! 

 

\---

 

John sipped his pint. 

He was sitting at the bar of a pub in Inverness. It was 18:00 and the after work crowd was still in full force. He'd always enjoyed that – during the rare times he'd worked nine to five – going to a pub with his work mates for an hour or two.

But now it was awkward sitting here alone with groups all around him. He tried to think what he would have done when he was younger... but he couldn't remember ever drinking alone.

John felt restless. Discontent. He didn't know what he wanted. But he wanted.

"What's going on with you, Doc?" Stan had asked him, offering him a swig of the sweet plonk that Peg favoured.

"Nothing. I don't know." John took a pull, wincing at the taste. He saw the Gunnery Sergeant's bemused skepticism and sighed. "I talked to Sherlock yesterday – I think I know him so well, but he never does what I expect him to do."

"Sherlock! Is he coming to visit again?"

"Erm, no."

"Oh, too bad. What were you expecting him to do?"

"Tantrums... ultimatums... instead I get a reasonable adult – making ME the unreasonable one. Which, of course, I AM." John kicked at a clump of grass. "I hate it. I feel like I'm fifteen again – I don't know half of what I think I do, I'm so moody I keep surprising MYSELF – I've been a complete and utter cock... and, Gunny, I'm horny as fuck. I'm expecting to get spots next."

Stan had laughed at him – silently, but with great amusement. "I remember feeling like that. Peg wasn't happy with the mood swings, but we conceived Davey – that knocked me out of it right fast." He regarded John. "Why DON'T you have Sherlock up? You'd get a leg over."

"It's complicated."

"Is it? You two are crazy about each other."

"Yeah, that's the thing, Gunny, it's... it's so much PRESSURE, knowing he's WAITING for me. I don't know what I want. Until I do, I can't encourage him. That would be cruel." John shook out his arms restlessly. "Whatever I do I end up hurting him. I have no idea why he puts up with it."

"You might be overthinking this."

"I don't know. Probably."

"What DID you tell him, Doc?"

"I told him I wanted to see other people." John said, looking at his feet. 

"Oh! I see what you mean about being a cock. Do you?"

"Yes... no – I don't want a relationship. I just want some... excitement. A bit of the chase." John took another slug of the cheap wine.

"I didn't think you blokes had to do much chasing..."

"What? Oh – I'm not gay, Gunny. I'd never been with a man when I met Sherlock. I have since, of course, but... I like women."

Stan's eyebrows rose skeptically. "You gonna TELL these women you wanna chase that you have a boyfriend waiting in the wings?" He asked. "How many pies do you want your fingers in?"

"Sherlock's not my boyfriend." John said, truculent.

"Semantics."

John scoffed.

"Seems like you're just scared, John. You're inventing obstacles."

John had no answer.

"Think about it, Doc." Stan said. 

John HAD thought about it, but the thought pissed him off. Now he was getting pissed in this pub, trying to make eyes at a cute redhead down the bar and almost succeeding.

Down the block there was another sort of bar. If John really wanted sex, he could get it there. Anonymously if he chose. Or John could strike up a conversation with a likely looking bloke and go home with him.

He'd gone there a few weeks ago, curious. Stan's comment about not having to chase men for sex... John knew there were plenty of places men went to cruise – he'd simply never been to one. 

John hadn't cared for it. The music was too loud and too disco. The men were either sculpted within an inch of their life in pastel polo shirts; skinny, fragile-looking boys in pastel polo shirts; or beefy, hairy guys in pastel polo shirts... very few were just 'regular blokes' like John. He thought wistfully of Shane.

After half a pint, John was ready to leave. He hit the gents out of necessity – and caused a bit of a stir at the urinals when the other users caught sight of his endowment. It was embarrassing, but also exhilarating.

John returned to the bar to close out his tab as the DJ started spinning Madonna's 'Express Yourself' to a heavy disco beat, mixing in 'Lady Gaga's 'Born This Way' with a rolling, industrial bass underneath it all. One of John's first girlfriends had loved 'Express Yourself,' and John found himself grooving along, tapping his foot and moving his shoulders to the beat – so he wasn't TOO put out to find the bartender had already poured a fresh pint for him. He paid and tipped and took a swallow of the ale... and he felt hands on his hips the way Shane had often done.

John turned to find a man who probably had fit in with the 'skinny, fragile-looking boys' ten years ago, and now was a slim, exceptionally good-looking man in a mint-coloured polo. 

"D'you wanna dance, mate?" He asked.

Why not?! This guy was SO out of John's league, he actually felt a little bit honoured. 

The handsome man led John onto the crowded dance floor before John remembered he didn't dance... but there didn't seem to be much more movement required than his grooving at the bar. The handsome man put his hands on John's hips again, from the front this time, and they grooved together. "Express yourself/ you've got to make him/express himself/ hey hey hey hey...I'm on the right track, baby/ I was born this way, hey..."

Some of the handsome man's mates joined them – John recognized one magenta polo from the urinals – and they were group dancing. John was starting to loosen up a little – maybe this place wasn't so bad...

"Don't go for second best, baby/ put your love to the test you know, you know you've got to/ make him express how he feels..."

John stopped dancing. What was he doing here? Abruptly he walked away, off the dance floor, out of the bar, down the street and into an open cab. 

"Don't go for second best..." Pop song wisdom that made John feel the full weight of what exactly he was doing. Sherlock had wanted to dance with him. Granted, probably not to disco, but still – what was John doing grooving with random strangers? Letting them touch him?

"Then you know your love is real."

 

\---

 

Sherlock opened John's email. 

Ever since that appalling phone call, John had been emailing regularly. Before the call, he would occasionally reply to one of Sherlock's notes, but he was just as likely to let days or weeks go by in silence. Sherlock had written almost every day anyway.

But after informing Sherlock that he wanted to 'see other people' (whatever that meant), John had been a faithful correspondent. He replied to all of Sherlock's emails and sometimes even wrote spontaneously. 

 

S-  
Action-packed day here, I worked the cold press for Stan for six hours. I thought taking temperatures and handing out bandaids was dull, but clinic work is the height of excitement compared to pressing rapeseed oil out of rape seeds. 

Your new case is interesting – a real life locked-door murder mystery. I'm guessing you don't think it was committed by an escaped baboon –or a Chinese acrobat. The pebbles ARE strange, especially as there aren't any pebble drives or beds in the vicinity... you're convinced they were tracked in by the killer? Could be a red herring.

Something to ponder on the cold-press tomorrow.

J

 

John, once again you have solved the case! Or rather you inspired the thinking that allowed me to solve it. The pebbles WERE a red herring (spilled from a game of Go)– but so were the locked and barred doors and windows! The murderer HADN'T left the flat after the killings, she'd waited patiently until evening when the victim's spouse had returned. He – as you know already – called the police when he could neither get into his home nor reach his husband. (He could hear his husband's phone ringing inside the flat when he called.) After the cops broke down the door and found the victim – in the ensuing flurry of activity – the killer (the tenant in the next flat) had 'stopped by' to, she claimed, see what was going on and see if she could help out. THEN she left. Any hairs or fingerprints she'd left in the flat were eliminated along with the police. 

Thank you, John! I don't know how but you consistently bring the light.

SH

 

John was part of his everyday life again – no longer just a void where his chair had been, where HE had been, like a missing tooth Sherlock couldn't stop probing with his tongue. John was present. It wasn't the same as when he'd lived there, of course, but for now it was enough. 

Enough for Sherlock to have faith that, despite the phone call to the contrary, it WOULD become more.

 

\---

 

John waved at the redhead. He'd seen her there before a few times with her mates, and they'd exchanged glances... and then smiles... then greetings...

She came over – Marianne was her name – and took the stool next to John as he signaled the bartender to bring her a pint.

"Hiya." She said. "Missed ya for a few weeks."

"I've been working – a mate has a farm and I help out during harvest."

"That must bring in a fair few quid."

John laughed. "I do it for nothing."

"Really?!" She seemed shocked at the idea,

"He helped me out during a difficult time. Least I can do."

"What is your real job, then?"

"Oh, erm... I don't have one. Right now, anyway." John sipped his pint. "What do you do, Marianne?"

"I work in an office – how can you not have a job? You must be loaded."

John laughed. "Not in the least."

"Are you taking the piss?" She asked, suspicious.

"No, I swear. I have an army pension that's sufficient if I'm careful."

"Army? Did you see action? Is that what happened to your hand?" She gasped. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked that!"

"No it's ok." John said. He was wearing a glove on the prosthetic – it passed for a real hand up close this way. He flexed the prosthetic hand and held it out to her. "I did see action and I was invalided. But not for this. This happened after."

She took his left hand and held it in her own – she didn't seem to be able to tell it was false. John curled the fingers around her hand. He wished he had sensation in it beyond the pressure plate – the latest improvement, it allowed him to 'feel' pressure on the palm and fingertips as an odd sensation on parts of his forearm. He was still getting used to it, but it allowed him to hold Marianne's hand without fear of crushing hers or not being able to tell if she wanted to let go.

"What happened to it?"

"A story for another time." John said, his tone letting her know it was off-limits. He smiled to offset the harshness.

They chatted on. She told him about her office job and moving to Inverness from her little village, a holiday to Ibiza for which she was saving up.

John told her about London and a little about Afghanistan. He didn't mention he was a doctor or a Captain – he got the impression she would be overly-awed. She was maybe ten years younger than he, but less worldly than most women in their mid-thirties. John was enjoying himself, he didn't want to change the dynamic. 

A few pints later, Marianne was leaning into him. She was warm and soft. "Come back to mine?" She whispered in his ear.

"Yeah." He responded. "Lets go."

John paid the bar bill and helped her into her jacket – which was much too short and light for the weather. But it was a short walk to her flat, and it was a good excuse to put his arm around her. She fit under his arm – unlike the much taller men he'd been with – and John liked it. 

She let them into her building and they ran up the stairs holding hands. As soon as they were inside, he pressed her against the door and kissed her. 

She was SO soft. It shocked him how soft she was, how yielding. And breasts! He'd almost forgotten what a handful of breast felt like. He pressed his thigh between her legs and... he'd also forgotten how much more difficult it was to gauge a woman's arousal. 

He kissed her again, registering slight irritation at her lipstick smearing on his face. He felt resistance building in her body and he took a half step back, releasing her. "What's wrong?" John asked.

"Oh, nothing! You just... come on a bit strong."

"Sorry." Something else he'd forgotten – that he needed to be gentle, to coax her into arousal, unlike a man who sprung into arousal at a word or a touch and could take a bit of rough treatment. Wanted a bit of rough treatment. 

John caressed her cheek. "Sorry." He said again and kissed her more slowly, keeping his hands on her hips. She responded, her small hands roaming over his shoulders. She felt the harness for his prosthetic, but didn't pause her exploration. She ran her fingers over his biceps and pectorals, admiring his musculature. She tugged his shirt tail from his jeans and slipped her hands underneath to press against his skin.

He took her gently in his arms as they snogged, marveling at how perfectly she fit within them. 

She led him towards the couch. John sat down and she pushed him onto his back and straddled him, her skirt riding up her legs. His sort-of semi hard cock stood to full attention, straining almost painfully against his jeans. 

Marianne gasped and trailed her fingers across his tented crotch. Her touch was teasingly light, like a butterfly brushing against him. John wanted more! He wanted her to unfasten his trousers and pull it out, to take it in her mouth, down her throat...

He put his hand on top of hers, pushing it firmly against his erection. She giggled and palmed him assertively, but when he took his hand away her touch became less assured. 

John reached for her breasts and she moaned. He ran his thumb across her nipple – but it was soft. She WASN'T very aroused.

John gently wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down onto the couch. He lay partially on top of her, kissing her, moving against her, running his hand along the curve of her soft arse, searching for a way to turn her on, something that wasn't too aggressive ...

All of a sudden, John realized that it wasn't worth the effort. He didn't want this. He barely knew her and if he were honest, didn't expect to get to know her better. He'd spent enough of his life trying to convince women to have sex with him and trying his best to satisfy them... he hadn't been bad at it, but he seemed to have forgotten all his moves – he hadn't needed them with Shane or Sherlock. 

John sat up, disengaging from her. He wiped his mouth and frowned at the lipstick on his palm. "I'm sorry." He said to her, ignoring her little hands trying to pull him back. "It's not you... Marianne... you're lovely. I... I..." What could he tell her? "I thought I wanted this, but I don't?" "I have a boyfriend?" "I'm gay?" Only the first was absolutely true, but it would hurt her the most.

"John...?"

"I have to go." He told her. "You're very sexy... you're great. But I'm... I'm still hung up on my ex. I'm sorry."

With that, John left her flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Sherlock has a wet dream.


	12. Christmas Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John calls again.

Sherlock was tired. He'd slogged through the snow for hours this afternoon and his leg – the one he'd broken a year and a half ago whilst being chased by a spree killer in the sub-basement of a hospital – ached.

He'd slogged through the snow for hours fruitlessly. Sherlock had been certain that one of the crumbling warehouses on the Thames was housing the burglary gang and their loot, but he'd not found any trace of them.

AND it was "the holiday season." Carols and gifts and decorated trees, mince pie, pantos and plum puddings... Sherlock hated it. The forced cheer, the endless crowds, the slushy pavements ... Mummy insisting that he and Mycroft come home for Christmas dinner and "get along..."

Another Christmas without John.

His phone rang – John's special ring. Sherlock regarded his phone with dread. John had been 'seeing other people' for over five months now. Though he emailed regularly, John had never said anything about the other people he'd presumably been seeing. Nor had he called again.

But John was calling now. Would he say he'd found someone, that he was in love with someone else? Sherlock had been waiting for this call.

"Yes!?" Sherlock snapped into the phone.

"Sherlock, it's me – everything all right?"

"Yes, of course everything is all right. Why wouldn't everything be all right?!"

"You sound upset."

"Why are you calling, John?"

"I wanted to hear your voice."

For a moment Sherlock was speechless... then anger bloomed in his breast and he embraced it. "John, I've had enough! I haven't said anything because I was afraid of driving you away... but you AREN'T HERE anyway! It's time for you to come home!"

"Sherlock..."

"I've given you time and distance, John. I didn't say anything when you announced you were going to fuck other people. I've waited for you to pull your head out of your arse, but you haven't! 

"So now I'm telling you, stop fucking around and come home – or you will not have a home here any longer."

Sherlock was shocked by his own words. But he recognised the truth in them. They were long overdue.

"You're giving me an ultimatum?" John asked softly.

"I guess I am."

"Really?!"

"Yes! You can fuck other people OR you can fuck me. Remember fucking me? You loved it!!!!

"WHY are you pulling in Rosemarkie?! It's incomprehensible. You claim to hate it there – why are you shagging the locals?! Because you WANT to settle down there for good, John! Admit it! You love it there... you want a little Scottish wife... a couple of 'bairns...' Why lie about it?! John, just tell me the truth! John!?

"John?"

The line was silent.

"John..."

John had rung off! Sherlock flung the phone across the room. It hit the fireplace with a crunch and fell to the hearth.

Sherlock sat very still in the ensuing silence. What had he done?

Had he REALLY just broken up with John a second time? This time without ever really being together.

He had! Sherlock admitted it to himself, he'd given John too much latitude. Not that John couldn't do what he wanted, he certainly could. But there was a limit to what he could do and still have Sherlock waiting for him.

And John had passed that limit.

So why did Sherlock still love him? 

He'd never understood how women could still love partners who were cruel or cold, who obviously no longer loved them... Sherlock knew it was chemical. Love was just brain chemistry – too much cortisol, depleted serotonin... dopamine... Sherlock might as well be shooting cocaine, dopamine had the same effect.

Cocaine withdrawal, as Sherlock well knew, was agonizing. Humans will cling to "love" rather than go through dopamine withdrawal, no matter how unloving the subject. 

Sherlock HATED that HE was such a stereotype, that he was so... human. Mycroft would tut: "Love is not an advantage, Sherlock." Mycroft had always been the smarter one. He'd never let sentiment gain a foothold.

There should be rehab for love. There was rehab for alcohol and drugs. Love was no less addicting. No less destructive. 

The urge to self-medicate his way out of this infernal dopamine withdrawal was indescribably powerful...

But Sherlock had vowed that JOHN would not drive him to drugs. He couldn't stand the thought of John's pity. John searching for him, finding him strung out in some flop house or drugs den... it was intolerable.

No. Sherlock had endured withdrawal before. He could do it again. Dopamine would be a piece of cake after heroin.

Busy. That was key. Sherlock had to keep himself busy. "Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted. "Mrs. HUDSON!"

He heard her on the stairs. "What is it, dear?" She asked. "Look at you! Sherlock, you're soaking."

"I need your phone." Sherlock said.

"Take your coat off, dear, I'll get a towel. Oh, your shoes are ruined!"

"Your phone, Mrs. Hudson. I need your phone."

"Yes, I heard you, dear. I'll get it – after you get out of those wet things. You'll catch your death." She left him in the living room and he heard her rummaging in the linen cupboard. "I don't know how you go through towels so quickly!" She muttered. 

It occurred to him that SHE must be the supplier of the fresh towels and linens that appeared in the cupboard. "Hm..." Sherlock dismissed the thought as unimportant. But he shed his coat, cognizant that she would not be redirected to the phone until he complied.

"Why don't you wear wellies?" Mrs. Hudson queried as she carried his dripping shoes into the kitchen. "I've put the kettle on, you need a nice, hot cuppa. Go change your clothes, it'll be ready, dear."

"Mrs. Hudson..."

"I know, my phone. Go change your clothes."

Sherlock slunk into his bedroom and peeled off his clothes – she was right, he really was unpleasantly wet. It was tempting to put on his pajamas, but he wasn't intending to stay in tonight. He found wool trousers and a thermal to wear under his shirt. He went directly to the "warm" section of his sock index and chose a thick pair. He considered a jumper, but his thoughts skittered too close to John, to things he loved about John, so he left it to dig through his closet for the old wellies that he'd acquired as part of a disguise.

"What happened to YOUR phone, dear." Mrs. Hudson asked. It was lying on the table, the touch screen splintered, the casing cracked, next to a dish of homemade biscuits.

"Accident." Sherlock murmured, biting into a glazed pumpkin spice biscuit. "Bless you, Mrs. Hudson." He said as the sugar met his tongue. She set a steaming mug of tea in front of him and he started spooning sugar into it.

Mrs. Hudson sat down across from him with her own mug of tea. "John called, dear." She said, pulling her phone from a pocket and setting it on the table. "He said he's been calling and texting, but you hadn't answered. He sounded worried."

Sherlock didn't reply. He eyed her phone suspiciously as he shoved another biscuit into his mouth.

"You boys aren't fighting again, are you?" She fretted. "My husband and I, we never fought... if we disagreed about anything, we just went to bed.... but we weren't friends like you two are, dear. We didn't have anything to talk about."

"On second thought, Mrs. Hudson, I DON'T need your phone." Sherlock swallowed half his tea at once. He stood and rummaged through the coats until he found his second best overcoat and a warm scarf. "I'm off out." He announced, scooping up four of the biscuits and kissing her on the cheek. He whirled to the stairs and was halfway down before he heard her voice. 

Outside the snow continued. There would be a white Christmas for the idiots who valued such a thing. Sherlock wondered what the weather was like up north on the coast – he pictured John huddling in front of his wood stove, wool blanket over his shoulders... he forced his thoughts back to London.

Sherlock pulled his second best coat more tightly around himself and made his way the six blocks to the convenience store. He bought a prepaid phone and dialed as soon as it was activated. 

"Lestrade! What do you have for me."

"It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock!"

"People don't get murdered on Christmas Eve?"

"As a matter of fact..." Lestrade admitted. "They do. All right, meet me at six Goodge street, it's in Fitzrovia –"

"I know where it is." Sherlock snapped.

"Good. Meet me there." Lestrade rang off.

 

\---

 

The murder of three American tourists in their AirBnB only took a few hours to solve. The murders appeared to have been unplanned – a crime passionnel – utilizing a knife from the kitchen of the flat. Lestrade thought they must have picked up the murderer in one of the bars or restaurants for which they found receipts. The three certainly had been eating and drinking their way through London. 

But Sherlock pointed out the toiletries in the master bath – they were all on one side, even though only one person had been staying there. The other bathroom had the toiletries of two people, the couple in the other bedroom. Why wouldn't the single person have spread out? Why didn't the couple take the master suite? Obviously, there had been a fourth American tourist. Sherlock recommended that the police enquire at cab companies and hotels – had an American been picked up in the vicinity? Had a lone American checked into a hotel without a prior reservation? They found him before Christmas morning.

The thought of returning to Baker Street was unappealing. Only slightly less so than having Christmas Dinner with Mycroft and their parents. Sherlock went to the morgue instead.

"Molly!" Sherlock cried. 

Molly had no interesting cases. She let Sherlock convince her to show him everything she had anyway, but she was right. Nothing. 

He could see she was impatient to leave, to have her Christmas with her family. Sherlock walked her out.

"You could... come." Molly said hesitantly. "If you don't have plans already, of course. Mum won't mind setting another place..."

"No! No... I'm... I have... something..." Sherlock assured her. 

"If you're sure? It's no problem...."

"I'm sure."

"Is John in town? Is that –"

"Look at the time! I'm late for... something. And you'll be late! Can't keep Mum waiting!" He pushed her out the doors, ignoring her protests. 

As Sherlock tramped up the stairs to his lab, he willed the prepaid phone to ring – Lestrade, and only Lestrade, had the number. 

The phone was silent. Sherlock checked to make sure it was working. It was.

Why had John called Mrs. Hudson? He'd ended their phone call... did he want to tell Sherlock his lover's name? Rub it in after Sherlock had exploded at him? Show Sherlock how little his ultimatum meant? 

Or did John want to bargain, buy himself more time before losing his place in their Baker Street flat? Apartments in London were hard to come by, after all. 

Sherlock booted up the geriatric computer in the lab and navigated to his email. Perhaps an interesting case would be in his inbox.

There may have been, but Sherlock didn't see it. He couldn't see past John's name. John had sent the email hours before he called. Trying to suppress any hope that John's email would redeem him, Sherlock clicked on it.

 

Sherlock,  
There's a blizzard up here. I would have been snowbound in the cottage, but Stan and Peg insisted I go into the village with them – apparently seaside cottages are particularly unpleasant during snow storms. Although if I had enough food, being snowed in doesn't sound too bad.

Especially as I'm at the Carriage House now. I shouldn't complain – it's warm, dry and there's plenty to eat that isn't beans on toast. And unlike Davey, I'm not afraid Santa won't be able to find us. They gave me the room I had when we first came here looking for Davey, the room that adjoined yours. 

I never apologized for forcing you to be the one to break up – and for trying to blame you for it. I have been such an arse and I'm sorry. I never should have asked you to be with me while I was with Shane. I was so certain that you wouldn't accept – I underestimated you, your capacity for love, your naïveté, your tolerance, your circumspection. All of it shames me. 

I have so many regrets. But my biggest is that we became lovers at a time when I was struggling so much. I haven't been the man I ought to be – that I want to be. You bore the brunt of it all without complaint. It was much more than I deserved and so much less than what I should have given you. 

For what it's worth, I'm so sorry. 

I know it's short notice, but would you come for New Years? We need to talk. You said you couldn't wish we'd never met, I hope that's still true.

John

 

Sherlock read through the note again... and then again. He remembered that night – he'd begged John to tell him what he'd done wrong. John had insisted that Sherlock hadn't done anything, but he'd never been able to shake the feeling that if he'd only been more... patient? Experienced? Honest? More SOMETHING it would have been different.

Sherlock felt an echo of the anger that had blossomed when John called. As much as he told Sherlock it wasn't his fault, John had played on that feeling...

But Sherlock COULDN'T wish he'd never met John. He barely remembered the man he'd been before, only that dopamine withdrawal didn't touch the loneliness he'd felt then. Was that it? Had he been so afraid of being that man again, he'd forgiven everything and anything?

What would life be like after John?

No sex. Not even the potential for sex. Sherlock couldn't imagine another man to whom he could a) trust himself physically, that b) Sherlock found attractive, who c) also wanted Sherlock, who d) didn't bore him to tears... he was surprised he'd even found one.

Companionship? Sherlock had other people in his life now – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. Even Mycroft to an extent. But John had been his constant companion. Sherlock couldn't tolerate any of the others like he could tolerate John – and vise versa.

If only he'd stayed away! John would be whole – he never would have had to go through the trauma of losing his hand and then the crippling depression. He would have a good relationship with a kind (if kind of dull) man. Sherlock would still be a cherished memory. Not an inconvenient ex for John to feel guilty about.

Sherlock never should have called Mycroft. He should have stayed in Kazakhstan – he would either be dead or in prison now, but the pain would be HIS, not John's.

Sherlock realised he was blaming himself again. He was tired – he'd been tired when John called and he'd been up all night since. Dawn was breaking, it was Christmas morning. He imagined little Davey openings gifts – John would be there too. He wondered what St. Nick had brought for John. An orange? Warm socks? A wife? 

Sherlock yawned hugely. Why wasn't Lestrade calling?! Hundreds of people must be murdered on Christmas morning – in London alone!

He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. He could kip here until Lestrade called.

 

\---

 

John tied his wrists to the bedposts – after he saw Sherlock's reaction at the thought of John tying him down, he'd taken Sherlock to a sex shop and procured a set of padded leather wrist restraints. 

Sherlock had tried to hide his interest, John had been tied up and tortured, after all.

But John had noticed. The wrist restraints would not hurt Sherlock and could not cut off his circulation – John had been adamant about that. 

But all that was forgotten in this moment when John secured the restraints and Sherlock discovered he could not free himself. He was so hard! Pulling on the restraints, he lifted himself up onto his knees so John could see his jutting prick, dripping pre on the bed linen.

He felt John climb onto the bed behind him and he spread his legs eagerly. John slapped his haunch and Sherlock moaned happily. John's fingers dug into the flesh of his hip, Sherlock arched his back, presenting. John's stump brushed over his hole, down his perineum to his tight scrotum, then back up to tease the tight bud of muscle. Sherlock pushed back on it. He wanted to ask John to put it inside him, to fuck him with it – the thought of John in him up to his elbow made him squirm with anticipation and desire. But he didn't dare say it, not yet. John rarely let anyone even see his stump and had only started touching Sherlock with it a few weeks ago. Sherlock daren't push him.

Instead, he rocked back and forth, fucking himself on the scarred flesh, feeling it penetrating him with mounting excitement. He kept rocking, harder now, taking it deeper and deeper. Sherlock increased the speed and force, taking it hard – he was certain that John was driving it into him in time with Sherlock's backward thrusts.

Suddenly it was gone – Sherlock couldn't stop his cry of dismay. But John's fat cock, long as a wine bottle and almost as thick, took its place and John penetrated him abruptly, to the root. All the hair on Sherlock's body stood on end, the combination of pain and pleasure delicious. 

John pulled out and rubbed the head of his cock against Sherlock's hole, making him whimper and strain back towards it. John drove himself all the way in again and Sherlock grunted. He tried to say "Yes! Fuck me, John" but the ball gag kept his words from flowing.

John's fingers tangled in his hair, and he pulled as he thrust – faster now, establishing a rhythm – yanking Sherlock's head back. John's left arm folded around his hip, as he fucked, the sounds of their flesh slapping together loudly. 

"You love being fucked!" John accused and Sherlock grunted his agreement. With his hands tied, he couldn't touch himself and his prick felt ready to burst. "You love having cock in your arse!" John was deep dicking him now, Sherlock could feel it inside his abdomen, poking. 

Then John pushed him down, pulling his legs back so Sherlock lay flat on the bed. He ground his cock into the mattress as John positioned himself over his hole and dropped himself in, gravity aiding his thrusts – doing speed push-ups into Sherlock's arse. This was new and Sherlock couldn't get enough. He wanted to pull his ass cheeks apart, let John go that much deeper, but the restraints frustrated him.

John heard the chains and laughed. "You can't!" He grunted along with his thrusts. "You can't get away, you can't cry for help! You just have to take my cock! Your arse is my cum dump!" Somehow he fucked Sherlock even harder. "You love being a cum dump! I bet you want me to get all the men on the block to line up and dump their cum in your hole! Yeah! Run a train on your greedy hole!"

John shuddered and Sherlock actually felt John's cock swell even fatter inside him and then his guts were flooded with heat. Sherlock rubbed his prick against the bed as John fucked a huge load of cum up his arse – and that took him over the edge, his hole clamping down on John's cock, his arse spasming with intense pleasure that rushed through his entire body, coming out as a scream around the ball gag, centering his entire being in his shuddering, contracting arse. And still John fucked him, long, hard intrusions with what was both too much and not enough cock. The orgasm went on and on and on...

And then Sherlock felt his own prick swelling and shooting – it was confusing until he realized he was in the throes of his first anal orgasm and it had set off his penile orgasm... and then he lost his mind to the juddering pleasures ripping his body apart.

As he slowly came down, John pushed one of the plugs he'd chosen into Sherlock. "You love my cum so much, you keep it in there. The plug stays in until I take it out."

He unbuckled the ball gag. "Yes, John." Sherlock said. When his wrists were released, he curled into John's arms savouring the feeling of the plug filling his arse.

They'd had a case that evening, and Sherlock had gone to the scene with the plug in his arse. After he'd solved it, John took him into an alley and using the cum for lube, fucked Sherlock against a brick wall whilst Sherlock begged for his cock. Then John plugged both loads in his greedy hole and Sherlock went to his knees to clean John's cock.

Sherlock woke abruptly, realising the burner phone was ringing. He also realised he'd come in his pants as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too hard core? It is but a dream.


	13. Boxing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't believe the evidence.

Lestrade had another murder – and after cleaning himself up best he could, Sherlock buttoned up his second best coat and prayed the scene wouldn't be too warm.

Luckily it was in an abattoir. Six Eastern European workers had been killed. The morning shift was horrified to find the night shift had had their throats cut, been gutted and hung from hooks.

"Seems strange, staying open on the holiday." Lestrade remarked.

"It's a kosher butcher." Sherlock informed him.

"How can you tell?"

"That knife–" Sherlock pointed out a machete-length rectangular knife in a pool of blood. "–is called a chalif. It's twice as long as the width of a cows neck and it's required to be so sharp the animal can't feel it cut. This area is where the non-kosher parts are removed and the blood is drained from the meat. Over there are the tubs used to soak and salt the meat..."

"Ok, I get it."

"And that is a kosher certification." Sherlock pointed at a framed form on the wall.

"All right." Lestrade said impatiently. "Any thoughts on who did this so I can maybe get home in time for mince pie?"

"No thoughts on who, yet – other than the person whose size ten shoes made all these tracks – but I think THIS is why." Sherlock prodded a lump of butchered flesh with a gloved finger. "Pork." He said. "The lab can confirm it. One of these people –" Sherlock waved his hand at the corpses on the meat hooks. "–butchered a hog here, fouling the operation and enraging someone enough to... do this. Check anyone with training in Shechitah – the ritual of slaughtering animals so they are Kosher – butchers, apprentices, Rabbis, older women in Orthodox families..."

"What? Older women...?"

"The women of the household were traditionally in charge of Shechitah, they would slaughter the animals and prepare the meat at home. It's generally left to Kosher butcher shops now, but older women in the community may very well be adept."

"Jesus!"

"I shouldn't think so."

"But seriously, do you think an older woman could overpower, kill and hang six people on meat hooks?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps... but the size ten footprint–" He knelt and peered at the floor more closely. "– suggests not. There's a complete shoe print here."

"Winston." Lestrade called. "Bring your camera over here..."

Lestrade didn't make it home for mince pie, it took over twelve hours to find the culprit. Sherlock had zeroed in on the young Rabbi recently brought in to bless the meat, but he'd disappeared. It wasn't until 2 a.m. that they found him hanged in his garage, confession pinned to his chest.

It was a let down, finding the Rabbi swinging gently from the rafters. Sherlock felt unaccountably disappointed. He had not anticipated suicide. If John had been with him, would HE have anticipated it? He was so much better at human motivations. Or would he have said something that would have made it clear to Sherlock that suicide was the ONLY possibility? He missed John so much.

But John was far away. John was seeing other people. And Sherlock had told him he had to choose – me or them, here or there. Not both. Not anymore.

He crashed – barely able to stumble to the high street and flag a cab. He hadn't eaten since Mrs. Hudson's tea and biscuits on Christmas eve, and he'd only had a few hours of sleep Christmas morning. Sherlock kept nodding off on the ride back to Baker Street, all he could think about was pulling off the blasted wellies and collapsing on his bed.

But in the stairwell to the second floor, Sherlock stopped, suddenly alert, not certain if it was a sound or a smell that had flooded his system with adrenaline. He crept up the remaining stairs silently – the living room door was ajar, something Mrs. Hudson wasn't in the habit of doing. He carefully pushed the door open and let his eyes adjust to the moonlight shining through the windows. 

There was a shape on the floor, a rucksack or a duffel of some sort... and a figure prone on the couch...

John.

John was here.

John was home! 

Why was John here? What did it mean?

Sherlock gazed down at him, taking in the strong profile untroubled in repose, the tartan shirt peeping from a rust-coloured jumper... he had spread his black donkey coat over his torso and balled up his army green parka into a pillow. Red socks and jeans finished his outfit – damp chelsea boots sat next to the door, announcing that John had arrived roughly three hours prior...

Sherlock quietly shed his coat and wellies and made his way to his chair. He settled himself on it, drawing his knees up and steepling his fingers under his chin.

He didn't watch John sleep, but he was very aware of his presence. He found himself matching his breathing to the rise and fall of John's chest.

It was strange how different the flat felt with John in it.

Why had he come? What was he doing here? Could he possibly have come for Sherlock? There wasn't enough data... it was just as likely that John wanted to tell Sherlock in person about his new love. That's the sort of nightmare that John would think honorable.

"John." Sherlock said aloud, surprising himself. "John!" 

The familiar figure stirred and pushed himself upright, blinking the sleep out of his eyes – Sherlock's heart almost broke with love to see it! But he held himself back, staying motionless in his chair. Still, he could barely think

"There you are." John said, his voice making Sherlock melt. "I was waiting for you... I fell asleep."

"Clearly." Sherlock swallowed his fear. "What are you doing here, John?" 

"You said to come now or not to come back at all."

"I gave you an ultimatum, yes."

"Yeah."

"You don't respond to ultimatums."

"Clearly I do." 

"But ...you hung up on me."

"I didn't! I lost the connection. I called back, I texted ... you never picked up!"

Sherlock frowned. "You lost the connection?"

"Yes! You know how hard it can be to get a signal up there. It's worse when there's weather." John sighed. "You wouldn't answer my calls... I thought... I got here fast as I could."

A seed of hope sprouted... Sherlock ground it into dust. "Why?"

"Because I love you. And I've missed you."

Sherlock blinked, trying to make sense of John's words. "You're 'seeing other people." 

John shook his head. "No. I'm not. It was horrible. I wasn't sure, but I am now, I just .... I want to be with you."

Sherlock didn't answer. He stared hard at John.

"I've put you through a lot." John said. "I'm sorry." He stood up and Sherlock twitched, but John didn't approach. He extended his arm and held out his hand to Sherlock. "Come here." He said softly.

Sherlock hadn't let himself believe this could happen. He had convinced himself so effectively that this would never happen... John's outstretched hand was... incomprehensible...

Until suddenly it was obvious.

Sherlock stood up all in one movement. John smiled at him and Sherlock could not cross the room fast enough. He meant to take John's hand but he bypassed it and flung himself into John's arms.

He kissed John's face – how had he forgotten the roughness of John's skin under his lips? The old scars on his cheeks, the stubble on his jaw, the tenderness of his eyelids? He held John's head in his hands, the short, shaggy hair prickling his palms and John's mouth finding his – warm and wet and tasting of sleep and tea, Sherlock fell into their kiss.

John cradled him in his strong arms, his hands – yes, Sherlock realised: HANDS – caressed his back and his side, and their legs pressed together. 

John lay Sherlock gently down on their sofa and stretched out next to him, combing the curls back from his brow with his fingers and resting a possessive hand on his hip.

Sherlock leaned up to kiss him again, needy and frantic, clinging to John's biceps. But John was calm and Sherlock began to relax under his touch.

"Are you staying?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"For how long?" Sherlock dreaded the answer – a few days, a week... he daren't hope for more.

"As long as you'll have me." John said.

"You're home?"

John's smile blinded Sherlock, his happiness a beaming spotlight. "Home." John whispered. "Yes, I'm home."

John kissed him, but Sherlock could barely return it – he was overcome, tears making tracks down his temples. He clutched John close, afraid to let go, afraid John might become vaporous and disappear, slipping through his fingers like smoke.

"You're exhausted." John said. 

"No, I'm fine." Sherlock said, leaning in to kiss and nuzzle John's neck.

"We're both tired. It's late, we should sleep."

"Don't go."

"I won't, love. Let's get in bed. Together. We can take our clothes off."

"Mmmmmmmm... that sounds... good." He reached for John's hand and interlaced their fingers, realising as he did it, it was the prosthetic. It gripped Sherlock's hand lightly, the thumb caressing Sherlock's wrist. "It's part of you." He said.

John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. "Come on, let's sleep." John stood and pulled Sherlock into a sitting position. "Come on, love.

Sherlock let himself be cajoled into his bedroom. John looked around at Sherlock's furniture, his poster of the periodic table... "Do you remember when Irene drugged you?" He asked.

"You put me to bed." Sherlock murmured, tugging on John's jumper.

"I did, and I asked you if you needed anything'... and you said 'what could I possibly need from you?'"

"Mm... I wanted you so much! You lifted me into bed and I wanted to pull you in with me. But I knew it would ruin everything ... I said the first thing I could think of that wasn't 'stay with me.'"

John pulled his jumper, shirt and vest off over his head at once and dropped them on the floor. Sherlock's hands found John's bare skin immediately tracing the muscles, the harness for his prosthetic. "Take your clothes off." John prompted. "We can make a list of everything you could possibly need from me."

"Oh! I..."

"In bed! Clothes off first." He pulled away from Sherlock's hands and deftly unfastened his jeans with both hands and pushed them off his hips. They fell to the floor and John stepped out of them. He stood there in red socks and red pants, the ginger fur on his chest trailing down his torso into the waistband of his pants.

Sherlock was mesmerized. But John put his hands on his hips and looked expectant so Sherlock finally began unbuttoning his own shirt. He was naked in under a minute, pulling the thick socks from his feet last then looking up to find John's eyes devouring him. He smiled shyly.

"God, you're beautiful." John said and Sherlock glowed. John closed the distance between them and kissed Sherlock, placing his hands on Sherlock's hips – one was hot and the other room temperature-cool and dry. Both gave his hips a little squeeze. "In bed." John said, tilting his head at it. "I'll be with you in a minute."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, not releasing him.

"I need the bog. I'll just be a mo."

Sherlock let go reluctantly and got into bed, listening to John move around the flat – in the toilet then out to the front room for long minutes, back to the bog then finally back to the bedroom. Sherlock half expected to see him dressed, getting ready to leave, but John was still wearing only his pants and socks. He'd removed the prosthetic and Sherlock remembered how long it had taken to don. John shed his pants one handed, and as he crawled into bed next to Sherlock, he saw John had wrapped a bandage loosely around his forearm and covered it with a mesh sleeve.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"One of the implants is irritated." John said. "I have a salve for it."

"Is it serious?"

"Not if I take care of it. I won't be able to wear my hand much for a few days."

Sherlock heard the note of tension in John's voice. He pulled John close and pet his head gently. John sighed and Sherlock felt him relaxing.

"It took so long to get here... the snow... I couldn't reach you, then you weren't here... I was so worried."

"What were you worried about?" Sherlock asked.

"You gave me an ultimatum then disappeared..." John's said wryly. "Let's say I had a general sense of unease."

"I... I didn't expect you to come home." Sherlock said softly.

"I gathered." John snuggled closer. "I should have come back sooner."

"You're here." Sherlock said. That's all that mattered now – Sherlock wasn't interested in recriminations. "I dreamt about you yesterday." He said.

"Did you?"

"Yeah. We were using those sex toys we looked at."

"Oh? Which ones?"

"The wrist restraints."

"Did you like it?"

"I think maybe we could try them out."

John laughed – Sherlock loved the feeling of John's chest against his as he laughed. 

"Go to sleep." John said. "We can work everything out tomorrow."

Sherlock felt a frisson of fear. "Work what out?"

"You were going to make a list of everything you could possibly need from me."

"Oh."

John kissed Sherlock's jaw. "You don't trust me... I probably wouldn't trust me either in your shoes. I've hurt you – we've hurt each other. I don't want to do that anymore, Sherlock. We need to work out how to be together without hurting each other. Maybe we'll need some help with that, I don't know. But we'll work it out tomorrow."

Sherlock's relief made his limbs feel heavy. They DID need to sleep. "I'm not sharing you." He warned. "Never again."

"This is what I mean – I assumed we would be exclusive, but neither of us should assume anything. Now we both KNOW – we are together and we are exclusive. John and Sherlock."

"Mm. Sherlock and John."

"Don't start – I don't have the energy to wrestle you into submission right now."

"But you will? You'll wrestle me into submission?"

"Of course. As long as you don't give in too quickly. Let me have a little fun first."

Sherlock's prick had started paying attention. He shifted under the duvet, trying to get comfortable. 

"No more talking or we'll NEVER sleep." John said.

"Ok."

John started drifting almost immediately. It took Sherlock longer to fall into sleep. He was still trying to assimilate that the thing he had wanted for so, so long had actually happened! John was here and John was HIS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will it last?


	14. The Return of the Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion, a ceremony and a sex vacation.

"John! We have a case!"

"You'll have to go without me." John replied, distracted by his task.

"Why!?"

"You KNOW why." John told the detective. "I have a meeting with my publisher."

"Oh. Right. Of course."

"Don't act like you remembered." John said scoffing.

"No, I thought... I thought you had that... other thing." Sherlock waved his hand in the air dismissively.

"If you mean grabbing a pint with Shane, yes, that's tonight."

Sherlock snapped his coat off the hook and started to put it on with stiff limbs and abrupt movements. John ignored him – one of their agreements was that grownups don't throw tantrums, grownups TALKED about their feelings – and Sherlock was a grownup. This went for John too, of course. His version of throwing a tantrum was to be mean and pick a fight. Sherlock was downright GLEEFUL when he caught John struggling with his temper and he could look down at John from the moral high ground.

This isn't to say they never fought – Mrs. Hudson had, on several occasions, had to come up and shout at them to stop shouting at each other.

John didn't expect that this would be one of those times.

"I know you don't like it, but it's just a pint. I haven't seen him in over three years. He's moved on. I'm ridiculously happy with you. I don't know what you're worried about."

"He doesn't believe in monogamy!" Sherlock flung the sentence at the door, which he was facing, fists clenched.

John appreciated his struggle to control himself. He went to his boyfriend and wrapped his arms around him – it wasn't the most comfortable position, being shorter than the man whose back he was pressed against, but this wasn't the moment to fret about that. 

"He BELIEVES in it, he just doesn't PRACTICE it." Before Sherlock could air the protest John could feel building in his chest, he hurried to reassure him. "But WE do, Sherlock." John said. "We ARE monogamous. You have nothing to worry about."

He felt Sherlock tremble and John held him more tightly. "Love, you have NOTHING to worry about."

"Why do you have to –" Sherlock stopped himself. "I don't understand."

"He was important to me. He helped me. I want to know he's doing ok. I've explained this..." 

"But I have a case! You can't..."

"I can't what?" John asked. Then realised what Sherlock was saying. "You won't be able to spy on us." John let go of the big idiot, sighing.

"John?" Sherlock turned to watch John gather his galleys for his publisher.

"Sherlock, you know I have no patience for your jealous spying."

"John, I know what I SEE. If I could see him, see you there, I'd KNOW."

"Sherlock you can see me right now! Look at me and tell me – am I going to betray your trust? In any way?"

"No." The admission was grudging.

"You trust ME. You don't need to see him, because you see me."

Sherlock stared at the floor. "It's hard."

"I know." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and leaned up on tiptoe to kiss him. Sherlock's aloofness dissolved almost immediately. He melted into John. "Don't forget to pick up your suit." John said. "It's important."

"Yes, John." Sherlock murmured, his expression softening.

"Isn't Lestrade waiting for you?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"Go. I'll see you tonight. It won't be late." Sherlock nodded and turned. John fit his hand on the curve of his arse and squeezed, enjoying Sherlock's lust-filled grunt. "Oh yeah. I will see you tonight!"

 

\---

 

Shane's greeting – a kiss on the mouth and full embrace – was, John thought, perfectly appropriate for friendly ex-lovers who hadn't seen each other in a long while. He doubted Sherlock would agree, however, so he hoped his boyfriend was NOT spying on them.

Regardless, John enjoyed it. Shane looked great – exactly the same: gangly and slightly awkward, floppy chestnut hair spilling over soft brown eyes, tatty coat and brown trousers... and happy. Shane looked happy. Not to see John, although that seemed to please him, but a deeper happiness that relieved a painful guilt John hadn't realised he'd been carrying.

"John!" Shane lightly held John's left forearm. "You did it!" He grinned broadly as John flexed his prosthetic fingers. 

"Yeah. I got into a test group for a new kind of prosthetic."

"May I?" Shane asked.

"Sure."

Shane took hold of John's left hand and examined it. "I have implants in my arm that allow me to control the hand electrically." John explained. He demonstrated by making a fist, moving the fingers and finally taking hold of Shane's hand.

"This is great!"

John shrugged, reclaiming his hand. "It's not the same." He said. "Nothing is as good as having your own hand. But this is as close as you can get with the current tech."

Shane nodded, sobered. 

"In?" John asked, gesturing at the pub. 

It was quiet inside. They found a table and John went to the bar for drinks.

"I've read your new book." John said. "Madame Delonge" – you're passing it off as fiction?"

"No one would believe me if I tried to sell it as 'True Crime.' And I did fictionalize a bit – actually toned down some of her more outrageous stories."

"She's something else, Dusette." John said. "Do you still see her?"

"Oh yeah, all the time. We're doing a sequel." Shane took a drink. "Actually, she's sort of adopted me, for lack of a better word. She calls me 'Malchanceux' – hapless" He chuckled. "And insists I need her to take care of me." Shane shook his head in bemusement.

"You DID save her life." John reminded him.

"Not really. She saved all three of us – I wouldn't have had a chance in hell in there without her – and that bastard had Sherlock chained up... anyway." He ducked his head, embarrassed to have reminded John of the man who had deprived him of his hand. "She tells me that you're with Sherlock now."

John nodded soberly. "Yeah. I spent a year and half in the middle of nowhere, living in a shack on the ocean. This..." John lifted his left hand. "...it was hard to come to terms with. Even with the fancy tech. I treated him horribly – I'm surprised he gave me another chance."

"I'm not." Shane said. "It was always obvious how much he loves you. And you him. Without the inconvenient boyfriend around..."

John put his hand – his right hand – on Shane's. "You were never inconvenient." He said sincerely. "Not for me."

Shane nodded almost imperceptibly. "Do you ever wonder what would have happened if things had been different."

John pulled his hand back and took another drink of his ale. "I don't think about what my life would be like if I hadn't lost my hand." John said. "That way lies madness." A drop from the ocean of bitterness deep inside John coloured his tone.

Shane understood. "You and he are doing well?"

"Yeah." John said. "We're, erm, getting married next week."

Shane smiled, surprised. "Congratulations, John!" He leaned over to pat John on the back. "That's really great!" John was touched to see that Shane was completely sincere. "And I hear you have a book coming out soon." He added. 

"Yeah." John said, grateful for the change of subject. "In about a month."

"What about?"

"I wrote a novel about Afghanistan when I was away." John told him. "A friend got it in front of a publisher and she called me, invited me into the offices. Told me my book was brilliant... then said it was unpublishable and asked me to adapt my blog about Sherlock into a series of books." John shook his head wryly. "So that's what I did."

"Brilliant and unpublishable... sounds like MY editor." Shane quipped. "Unpublishable just means they won't take a risk on a new author. If your Sherlock book sells, your novel will likely be publishable all of a sudden."

"Mm... she said as much, but I won't hold my breath." 

"Would you let me read it?" Shane asked. 

"Would you want to?" John asked skeptically.

"Of course!" Shane said immediately. "And I'll tell you if they're being straight with you – if it's brilliant or unpublishable or somewhere in between."

"An outside opinion would be great, actually." John said. "If you're really up for it. If it's terrible, don't feel like you have to keep reading."

Shane laughed. "I've read your blog, John – I know it won't be terrible."

They made eye contact and John felt an echo of the frisson that used to be between them. John looked away.

"There you are!" A man had approached their table whilst John was distracted. 

"John, this is Ken, my boyfriend. You don't mind if he joins us?"

"Not at all." John said, shaking the man's hand. He was roughly John's age, blonde and athletic, taller than John but still shorter than Shane. He was solid – a mesomorph resisting his body's inclination towards bulkiness by keeping himself ruthlessly lean.

"Can I get you another drink?" Ken asked. John and Shane assented and Ken made his way to the bar.

"He's a producer at BBC." Shane said. "They're adapting one of mine – 'The Hilltown Murder' –and I met him there."

"He's cute." John said.

"Yeah, I guess I have a 'type.'" Shane said sheepishly. 

John looked at Ken again. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"Come on, you don't see the resemblance?"

"To who?"

"You, dummy!"

"Erm... no." John squinted at Ken again. "If we're the same 'type,' you've definitely traded up." He said.

"Don't sell yourself short, John." Shane said softly without the levity John expected. The guilt returned with a sadness... it could have worked out for them...

Ken rescued them from their reveries with his timely return. 

"Shane's told me a lot about you." Ken said mildly. He put a hand on Shane's back and Shane smiled at him. "You're a doctor?"

"Yes. I haven't practiced in a few years though."

"Oh, what are you doing now?" John wondered if it was his imagination that Ken seemed a bit competitive... possessive.

"John's a writer." Shane supplied. "He has a book coming out soon."

"Oh. Congratulations."

"Cheers." John took a swallow of his ale. "And you work for BBC?"

Ken's a producer there." Shane said. "Mostly dramas, right babe?"

"Right."

"You mentioned... 'The Hilltown Murder.'" John said. "Is it still in production?"

"Finished. We're set to air in the spring."

"I'll have to keep an eye out." 

"Shane tells me that you introduced him to Margali Dusette, but he's never mentioned the circumstances." Ken said with a sidelong glance at Shane.

"Ken..." Shane chided.

"It's all very mysterious." Ken replied. "John, how did YOU meet an elite criminal like our Madame Dusette?"

"No, it's all right." John said as Shane started to object. "It's no secret. I met her through Sherlock. They've helped each other a few times with different cases."

"Sherlock Holmes? The detective? From the newspapers?" Ken asked.

John looked at Shane. "He really doesn't know?"

Shane shrugged. "Never came up."

"Mm." Clearly Shane had heavily edited whatever he'd told Ken about him. John glanced back at Ken, who was starting to look irritated.

"I work with Sherlock." John told him. "We're... close... friends, flatmates – on and off for a number of years now. When I was with Shane, he helped out on one of Sherlock's cases and met Dusette."

"Wait – Shane, YOU know Sherlock Holmes?" Ken asked.

"Yeah." Shane didn't elaborate.

"You never said! What kind of case?" Ken asked. "Murder?"

"Kidnapping." Shane mumbled, looking at John.

"Kidnapping!" Ken repeated, clearly excited. "Well, tell me about it."

John looked at his hands, folded in his lap, the memory haunting him.

"There's really nothing to tell." Shane said.

"Come on! Don't hold out on me!" Shane didn't reply. Ken appealed to John. "You were there, weren't you."

"John was very badly injured." Shane said abruptly. "It's not a pleasant memory."

"Oh! I'm sorry." Ken could see the silent communication between John and Shane, but visibly swallowed his curiosity – at least while John was present.

"Erm, excuse me. I'm for the gents." John escaped, leaving Shane to explain or not as he chose. When he returned, Ken had the thin lips of a man suppressing his irritation in front of company. Shane masked his upset better, but John knew him well enough to see it.

"I, erm, should get going." John said, picking up his coat.

"No." Ken said, making an effort to shake off his pique. "No, stay, John. I intruded on you. Don't let me chase you away."

"Stay. Please." Shane said. 

John nodded and slid back into his seat. Ken steered the conversation to travel, asked John about Afghanistan, Shane talked about research he was doing for a book idea... they passed a pleasant hour together. Ken was bright and witty, and as he relaxed the impression of competitiveness disappeared. He obviously adored Shane. John approved.

Eventually, Shane excused himself from the table. Ken slid over towards John. 

"Come home with us." Ken invited touching John flirtatiously on the arm. "It would be fun, the three of us. Shane says you're strictly top, but I'm versatile. And you know what Shane likes. Maybe even try DP? Shane would love that!"

John was momentarily speechless. Then he cleared his throat. "(Ahem)... No, erm, thank you – but... (ahem) no."

Ken sat back, relaxed. "Shane said you wouldn't." Ken told him. "But I knew it would mean a lot to him, so I thought I'd ask anyway."

John nodded. "Shane's really amazing. You're very lucky."

"I think so. He still has a soft spot for you, you know – the man who broke his heart."

"Fuck." John said under his breath.

"No, don't worry about it. He's good, really. Listen, I'm sorry I pushed earlier. About Dusette and everything – it's none of my business."

John nodded. "What has Shane told you?"

"Not much. Just that you were grievously injured and your injuries eventually led to your breakup. He doesn't blame you for it. Probably would have been easier for him if he could've." Ken saw John's stricken face. "Sorry. You've recovered, though? You look good."

"He didn't tell you, then?" John asked. He felt a need to justify himself, prove to Ken that he hadn't broken Shane's heart on a whim. John held out his left hand. Ken looked at him quizzically. "Touch it." John said.

Ken did. He furrowed his brow as he felt the cool silicon 'skin.'

"It's a prosthesis." John told him. "There was a man who wanted to hurt Sherlock. So he took me. I was, erm... tortured." John paused to control his voice. "And I lost my hand."

"Jesus."

"Sherlock and Shane came for me. Sherlock traded himself for my freedom – and Shane's. But instead of going to hospital with me, Shane went back, with Dusette, for Sherlock. If Shane hadn't been there, they both would have died. Instead, Shane took the man down. He saved them."

"Shane?"

"Yeah. He's a hero. But it was ... traumatic... for all concerned."

"You're with him now? Sherlock."

"Yeah."

 

\---

 

John got home later than he'd expected. Ken had seen some friends and had taken the opportunity to let John and Shane speak privately. They had – for another hour and a half.

He found Sherlock in the dim flat, huffy and sullen, sprawled on the couch in his pajamas, lit by the smartphone on his chest.

"How was your case?" John asked.

"Dull. A four."

"Mm. Sorry. Is there anything to eat?" John opened the fridge.

"I don't know. Biscuits, maybe."

"No. Real food. Is there any real food?"

"Not my area."

"Right. Fancy a takeaway?"

"Not... really." Sherlock said, feigning preoccupation. He hadn't looked up from his phone once.

John sighed. "I hate it when you're like this. You have nothing to be jealous of."

Sherlock flicked him a look.

"Stop it now." John said mildly and sat down on Sherlock's lap.

"Oof! John!"

"Stop playing hard to get. I know you want it." He plucked Sherlock's phone out of his hands and set it on the coffee table.

"Hey!"

John stretched out full length on top of Sherlock, pinning him to the couch, and nibbled his jaw. "Do you want to sulk or do you want to fool around?"

Sherlock relented slightly, resting his hands on John's back. "How is Bruno?" He asked.

"Shane's doing well." John said. "He looks good."

"Mm."

"Dusette told him we were together."

"Did she?"

"Yeah. He seemed really happy for us. I told him we were getting married."

"You didn't invite him!?"

John scoffed. "Of course not. Did you pick up your suit?"

"Yes!"

"Good." John kissed Sherlock who still had not completely thawed. "I met his boyfriend."

That cheered Sherlock. "Boyfriend?"

"Yeah. Shane might just have a soft spot for me still – he thinks this guy resembles me, but he's about nine times better looking." John laughed.

Sherlock frowned. "YOU'RE good looking!"

John laughed again. "You LIKE the way I look. That doesn't make me good looking."

"Yes, it does!"

"All right. Let me put it this way: Ken is OBJECTIVELY good looking."

"Boring."

"You know what's boring? Sulking." John moved to get up but Sherlock's arms tightened around him.

"Don't go." He got that vulnerable look in his eyes that John was never quite certain was sincere or manipulative, but he couldn't resist either way. "I don't mean to sulk, John. I didn't think you'd be so late... I was ... worried."

"What were you worried about, love?" John asked, brushing the curls off his forehead gently.

"I don't know... maybe you regretted leaving him..."

"I regret it was necessary. But I'm so happy now, with you. You know that."

"I don't know why I feel insecure. Why do I feel insecure?"

John kissed Sherlock's neck, his jaw, his collarbone. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel more secure?" He whispered, nuzzling Sherlock's ear and pressing his thigh against Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock's ran his hands down John's back. "I thought you were hungry." He said.

John kissed Sherlock's temple and nipped his earlobe. He could feel Sherlock's growing interest. "Oh, I am." He said. "Ravenous." He pressed his lips to Sherlock's, felt him yield.

"Right here? On the couch?" Sherlock asked.

"If you like. Or we can go to bed. Or to the kitchen..."

Sherlock trembled under John. "Oh yes... the kitchen ..." he whispered between kisses – kisses that were growing in intensity.

John coaxed Sherlock's lips apart, ran his tongue between them. He was rewarded with full access, Sherlock's tongue chasing his... John had grown to love the hard, deep, almost feral kisses that men shared, biting and wrestling, lips smacking vulgarly... he was getting hard, his cock pushing its way down his leg as it grew, and he felt Sherlock's prick stiffening as well. He bit Sherlock's lips and sent his left hand down to fondle Sherlock's erection, palming him through his trousers. Sherlock moaned and his lips chased John's as he pulled away.

John got a knee up between Sherlock's legs, spreading them – one leg off the side of the couch – and used the leverage to begin unfastening Sherlock's flies.

"You too..." Sherlock moaned, grasping at John's waistband.

"No." John said, batting his hands away. "You first. Strip off for me." They kissed again – and again losing themselves in each other, all tongues and wet, hard lips and clashing teeth. "I love you." John said. "You know that?"

Sherlock nodded, his blue eyes wide and lust-glazed.

John sat up, pulling Sherlock with him. "Now." He said. "Take your clothes off." He smacked Sherlock on the arse as he stood up.

Sherlock shyly began unbuttoning his shirt. John leaned back on the couch to watch, showing off the long, hard outline his tumescent cock made in his trousers.

Sherlock didn't make a production of it, he simply removed his clothing then stood there, alabaster skin shining in the dim moonlight. John took in his beauty – the long elegant limbs, the narrow chest with the pink rosebud nipples, the the dark fuzz on his legs gathering into a small, black cloud at his groin, his erect penis, delicate pink tip peeping from the foreskin, as elegant as the rest of him. It was hard sometimes to believe this creature was human, let alone someone that John was allowed to touch.

He stroked himself through his khakis and Sherlock crystal eyes tracked the motion, mesmerized.

"Go get the lube." John said. Sherlock nodded once and disappeared into the bedroom. John made his way to the kitchen and leaned against the table. It was a sturdy table, John knew from experience.

Sherlock padded barefoot from the bedroom, bottle of lubricant in hand, his hard cock damp and bobbing as he walked.

"Put it down." John said, nodding at the table. Sherlock obeyed, which brought him close. John caressed his bare skin, admiring the lovely curve of his arse, the smoothness of his flank.

"What's your safe word?" John asked.

Sherlock restrained himself from rolling his eyes. John insisted Sherlock tell him almost every time – the last thing he wanted was to hurt his lover. If John were going to be in charge (and nothing excited Sherlock like John taking charge) he needed to know Sherlock would stop him if he weren't enjoying himself.

"Sinister Triptychs." Sherlock muttered.

John hid his amusement. "Ok." He said. "Suck my cock."

Sherlock was on his knees instantly, tugging at the buttons on John's flies, dragging trousers and pants down his hips and taking John's cock in hand. He licked the length of it and tongued the head. John moaned, Sherlock knew what he was doing, knew what John liked. He took as much as he could, throating the head, pushing himself down – he could work up to the whole thing, John enjoyed the anticipation.

His hand found Sherlock's hair and tangled in it, as Sherlock bobbed. Then he took John's cock in hand and jacked it as he buried his face in John's balls, paying lavish attention to them.

John pulled his head back up to his prick. The head was red and wet, the foreskin retracted. Sherlock dug his tongue into John's urethra almost painfully. John yanked on Sherlock's hair – he suspected that's why Sherlock had done it, he couldn't get enough of having his hair pulled.

Sherlock's other hand descended to jack his own prick. John allowed it briefly. "No hands!" He commanded. Sherlock snatched his hand away from his cock and brought it back up to caress John's bollocks.

John stood up fully, taking Sherlock's head in both hands, and starting to fuck his mouth and throat. He pulled all the way out from time to time – to allow Sherlock a gasping breath (and to utter his safe word if necessary), and to back himself off from climaxing too soon. He edged himself this way as Sherlock took him deeper and deeper until his face was pressed into John's ginger bush.

"Ahhhh!" John moaned, holding Sherlock's head firmly against his groin.

Abruptly, John pulled Sherlock off his cock and held his hair firmly to keep him from diving back on. "Stand up!" He ordered, practically dragging Sherlock to his feet by his hair. He kissed Sherlock quite gently, then grabbed his arm and shoved him against the table, bending him over. He twisted Sherlock's arm up behind his back, pinning him down (with enough force to immobilize, not enough to break the arm) and kicked his legs apart. He rubbed his weeping prick in the cleft of Sherlock's perfect arse, pushing his hips forward and rocking. He combed the fingers of his left hand through Sherlock's dark curls.

"Stay down." John growled, releasing Sherlock's arm. He picked up the lube and took some on his fingers. Pressing his left hand down on Sherlock's back, he inserted his lubed up fingers slowly into Sherlock's hole. He was tight, but relaxed quickly under John's hand as he frigged.

"God, I love you." John murmured as he worked his fingers inside Sherlock's hole. John ran a finger over the walnut shaped sensitive spot and Sherlock squirmed and rubbed his cock against the table.

"Fuck me, John, please! I love how you fuck me. Give me your cock, John! Oh, John!"

John pressed the fat head of his prick into Sherlock. His foreskin was pushed back and pinned against the shaft in the most wonderful way and John had a moment of trouble holding himself back – but he needn't bothered, Sherlock shoved himself backwards, impaling himself fully with a grunt.

"Mine!" Sherlock asserted. "You're mine!"

John was surprised – Sherlock generally asked (begged) for what he wanted instead of taking it. But he liked this new aggressiveness. "Ok." He said. "You do the work. Fuck yourself on my cock."

Moaning, Sherlock did as he was told, pulling himself forward, arching his back and ramming himself backwards. It felt amazing. John watched his lover pleasuring himself, watched his cock appearing and disappearing.

John wanted more. He stilled Sherlock with his hands and began to rut, claiming Sherlock for his own. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and rode him hard, sawing his cock in and out, shoving himself into Sherlock's arse with abandon.

Still Sherlock begged for more. "Harder! Please, John! Please..."

John pulled all the way out to see Sherlock's hole gape, Sherlock actually snarled. "Don't stop!!"

John changed his angle of entry and slammed in hard. Sherlock wailed and writhed in pleasure – John cock was dragging across Sherlock's prostate, over and over. John fucked him with enough force to shove the table across the room a few centimeters at a time.

"John!" Sherlock cried. "John! Oh, Johnnn...."

John felt Sherlock shudder and spasm, felt Sherlock's hole clamp down on his prick. He redoubled his efforts, digging his fingers into Sherlock's flanks and fucking, his hips snapping against Sherlock's arse, his balls slapping against his perineum... until John was crying out, shooting his seed, pumping it deep into his lover's guts.

He collapsed on top of Sherlock, sweaty, wishing vaguely he'd taken his clothes off. John kissed Sherlock's back as he recovered, feeling Sherlock's continued trembling through his lips. He carefully pulled out.

"Come here, love." John murmured, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and pulling Sherlock onto his lap. Sherlock curled into him, knees up, head on John's shoulder. He was still shaking. John wrapped his arms around his man and held him tightly, rubbing his back. "Oh, my love." He whispered. "My beautiful love."

Sherlock slowly gathered himself, but he continued to cling to John. "You're mine." He whispered fiercely. "You're mine!"

"Yes." John agreed, petting his head. "I'm yours. I'll never let you go."

Sherlock was quiet after that – until he laughed, John feeling Sherlock's laughter before it burst forth in his chest and under his hand. "That was good." He giggled. "I love how you fuck me."

"Just good?" John asked, Sherlock's laughter contagious.

"Very good. The best."

"Mm. I'm glad you feel that way." John said kissing Sherlock's face. "You're stuck with me."

They went together to the bog. Sherlock started the shower and John undressed, shucking off the sweaty clothes with distaste. Then he climbed in after Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the man he loved.

 

\---

 

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, somewhat more crossly than John thought appropriate to the circumstances.

"It's a surprise." John said. He grinned at Sherlock, sitting next to him in the back of the cab. "Relax, it's just a few days to adjust to married life."

The civil ceremony had been small, just the two of them, John's sister and her partner, Mycroft and Sherlock's parents, Lestrade and his wife, Molly and of course Mrs. Hudson. 

"How will our life be different than before?!" Sherlock asked, alarmed.

"I don't know." John said, unable to stop grinning. "I've never been married."

"This is a sex holiday!" Sherlock accused. "You're taking me on a sex holiday!"

"So what if I am?" John said. "You have a problem with sex?"

"We don't need a holiday to have sex."

"Are you going to be this cranky our ENTIRE marriage?" John asked. "If you are, it'll be a short one."

"John!"

John laughed and took Sherlock's hand in his. It was his left hand, so he couldn't feel it as he would like, but Sherlock could. He brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. "Trust me. You will enjoy this."

"Where are you taking me?" Sherlock asked again, with more good-humour.

"You're the detective. You tell me."

Sherlock's eyes grew sharp. "Somewhere warm, given the contents of our suitcases. But not on the water – you left your swim suit at home. You have euros in your wallet, so somewhere within the E.U. Not Greece, you would have packed your suit. Not a city, somewhere rural, secluded, judging by the large book you've got in your carry on. And you've been humming "La Dolce Vida" on and off for the past three months, so it must be Southern Italy."

"Fantastic." John said.

"Why there?"

"You'll see." And that's all John would say.

They landed in Rome four hours later to find a man holding a sign that said "HOLMESWATSON." He took their bags, led them to a sedan car and drove them out of the city. It was late evening by then and John was feeling drowsy. Sherlock still hummed with nervous energy. But he smiled when John took his hand and sat back to gaze at his husband in wonder.

"You married me." Sherlock observed.

"I did. Yes."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in momentary confusion. John leaned close. "Because I love you." He said softly, winning another happy smile.

"You're tired." Sherlock said. "Come here." He pulled John into his arms and John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes. Sherlock smelled faintly of the expensive grooming cream he used in his hair. He was warm and comfortable and John felt himself drifting off. 

"Today has been perfect." He mumbled. It had – he'd woken next to Sherlock and they'd had a lie-in, talking softly, then making love (with Sherlock's new wrist restraints), they'd bathed and dressed and taken a cab to the Register Office where they met their friends and family. The ceremony was simple and short, they exchanged vows and rings and a kiss. Then on to the wedding lunch at a nearby restaurant. After lunch and toasts, John had bustled Sherlock into a cab with their luggage and taken them to Heathrow. 

John woke when the car stopped. He sat up to find Sherlock studying him. He leaned in and kissed his husband. 

They climbed out of the car and Sherlock prodded him. "Look, John! The sky!" The night was clear and bright with stars. Sherlock began pointing out stars and naming constellations. John was happy to walk in the garden of the small villa and listen – they would go in soon enough.

He led Sherlock a little way farther, wanting to show him why he'd chosen this place. But Sherlock stopped walking. He cocked his head as if listening... then broke into an enormous smile. 

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Bees!"

John returned his smile and took his hand, leading him beyond the arbour to the hives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed three stories of angst, love and longing.


End file.
